


Cut the Wire (How to Stop a Civil War)

by orbingarrow



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But it's there, Fix It Fic, Friendship, M/M, Past Medical Abuse, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Preventing a Civil War, Protective Bruce Banner, Protective Clint Barton, References to Past Child Abuse, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Science Bros, Slow Burn, The Clint/Bucky is wayyyy down the road, Trying to do the right thing, friends helping friends, just imagine the slowest burn, with lots of friendship first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbingarrow/pseuds/orbingarrow
Summary: When Tony finds out the truth about his parents a few days after SHIELD falls, it changes everything.  Miserable and angry, he offers to help Steve's squad save Bucky even if Tony doesn't think there's much left there to save.Halfway around the world, the Winter Soldier makes contact with Bruce-- the only Avenger he knows he can't kill.  Bruce empathizes with the soldier's past abuse and will do whatever he can to show him that consent, respect and kindness don't have to come at a cost.





	1. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Tate and I wrote TCYK I was new to the Marvel universe and she was a Bucky/Steve shipper so that's the direction we went. Now she's moved on to other fandoms and with her enthusiastic permission, I'm rewriting the fic to be Steve/Tony, which was very nearly there in their friendship anyway.
> 
> If you loved TCYK just the way it was, thank you SO MUCH for reading it and know that it still stands all by itself. These are two completely different universes!

***NEW YORK***

One week. Tony waits one week to hear from SHIELD after the triskelion falls. When he does, it’s nothing official (because there’s nothing official left) (SHIELD is ash and rubble) (SHIELD is Hydra) it’s Maria Hill showing up at Stark Industries looking for a job. They hire her, of course, because Pepper’s not stupid and also because Hill is good people and Stark Industries can desperately use good people right now.

That’s it though.

Tony lays awake at night waiting for Rogers or Romanoff to call. He’s got so many connections. He can pull so many strings. He would do-- could do-- whatever it took-- if they would just _ask_.

But they don’t call, and he doesn’t hear from them, and between the loneliness (Bruce had run) and the boredom (Bruce won’t be back anytime soon) and the overwhelming curiosity (it kills cats but Tony’s not a cat) Tony ends up poking where he shouldn’t.

“JARVIS? Do me a favor. All that data that Romanoff dumped-- see if there’s anything that mentions me. Actually-- scratch that. I know enough about myself to last me a lifetime. See what HYDRA had on dad, will you? And go straight to the Restricted Section. I only wanna read what I was never meant to see.”

Curiosity kills cats. Turns out there are plenty of fates worse than death.

*

“Did you know?” Tony demands through gritted teeth.

He’s called Steve because if they do this face to face Tony’s gonna punch him straight in the teeth and break his damn hand on that perfect smile.

“Know what?” Steve asks. His voice is weary. Confused a little, but not as confused as he should be, for a call coming out of the blue from Tony at 5:14 AM on a weekday.

“That Bucky Barnes was alive for one? I mean we could start there but probably-- the part with my parents. That’s-- that’s the part--” Tony snaps his mouth shut. Not because he doesn’t have more words but because words fail him. What are words when the world is closing in around you? What’s... what’s anything... when your lungs burn and your peripheral vision blurs and--

Tony throws the phone like it burns his hand and it hits the wall hard and thunks to the floor all in one piece.

Fucking StarkTech. Next time he’s buying a HammerPhone for the satisfying crunch it’ll make when it hits a goddamn wall.

Tony doesn’t realize he’s on the floor until JARVIS speaks. He’s also not sure how much time has passed. Tony’s got his back to the wall and his head resting against his knees. “Sir, Captain Rogers is calling. He’s insisting I put him through.”

“Just ask him if he knew!” Tony growls at the ceiling. “If the answer is anything but _no_ then kindly tell him to take his phone and shove it up his--”

“I didn’t know,” Steve’s voice pipes in. “I thought-- I was _sure_ Bucky was dead. I watched him fall. No one could have survived."

There's a pause and a deep intake of breath. Tony can picture Steve in crystal clarity, setting his jaw stubbornly as he plows through the painful words ahead. "But then-- I mean, you know now obviously-- he’s alive. He’s some assassin fairy tale called the Winter Soldier. And then before I knew he was alive, I saw some information on a screen that might connect him with your parents. But Nat and I were at an old Army base and about three seconds later Hydra was blowing us up. I haven’t had the chance to sort it out yet-- I’ve been in the hospital-- and all Nat could find me was one old file-- It’s mostly in Russian--”

Steve’s connection is fine so it’s not static that’s garbling the conversation. It’s Steve’s guilt.

Or Tony’s ability to process words mid panic attack. Everything hurts. Everything’s bad. Air is hard to find.

“I’m coming to the tower,” Steve says. “I’m already in New York. I’ll be there in ten.”

He ends the call.

Tony’s brain puts the thoughts together in some semblance of an order and after a few more minutes of just sitting on the ground and making himself breath, he’s able to push up off his rear and stumble over to the nearest sink to splash some cold water on his face. It doesn’t do anything for the splotches on his cheeks but it grounds him. Helps him stay on his feet as he paces and thinks.

Bucky Barnes is alive. Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier killed mom and dad. The Winter Soldier... went down in the helicarrier? Is assumed dead? Steve said is not dead?

It’s too much. And part of him doesn’t want Steve within a hundred miles of the tower and the other part wants him there right now. Rationality is a blur because Tony just found out who murdered his parents so everyone’s gonna need to give him a little bit of grace on this one. Especially Steve. Steve who launches himself out of the elevator before the doors finish opening and skids to a stop in front of Tony on the slippery floor.

“I should have called but I told myself I needed more information," Steve says, all in a rush, before Tony can get out a word. "I didn’t want to drop all that in your lap without some kind of... answer. And then... Bucky. I guess-- in the whole scheme of things your parents weren’t-- weren’t at the top of my mind because it’s Bucky.”

"Weren't at the top of your _mind_?" Tony growls.

"It's _Bucky_!" Steve explodes. Like he's been holding it in for days and Tony's finally given him a convenient place to shout.

"Right. I guess that explains everything then, doesn't it?" Tony snaps in return.

He sighs and sits down on the couch and waits. For what, he doesn’t know. An asteroid maybe. Something quick and painless.

Steve appears to have run out of words, too. He stands eerily still and stares out the window at the lights of New York. Or maybe he’s staring through them. Whatever it is he’s doing, it looks like it’s got more to do with the dead than the living. And that right there-- that’s what helps Tony understand what he’s looking at.

A haunting.

“He didn’t recognize me,” Steve says finally. “I don’t know what they’d have had to do to him to convince him to kill your folks. Bucky _liked_ Howard. The two of them got along like a house on fire. The snark never stopped. And we never met your mom. I don’t-- don’t have any answers. I wish I did.”

Steve sounds helpless and pathetic and sorry and Tony’s anger cracks a little at the edges.

“I’ve got answers,” Tony says blankly. “You want to dig through all the answers JARVIS found for me?”

Steve looks an awful lot like he wants to say no. Like he’d much rather wake up from this nightmare than have to keep on living through it. But like the American Hero he is, Steve takes the chair across from Tony, and when he speaks it’s clear his mind’s made up.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

"JARVIS, display it all. Start from the beginning. Pull up everything you've found."

 

***Five Weeks Later and a Continent Away***

After SHIELD falls, Bruce manages to go a month and a half without trouble. He ends up in the Alps on a whim, with no real thoughts on a destination apart from Shit Shit Shit Run. Maybe it was watching _The Sound of Music_ with Clint last Christmas (I lift up mine eyes into the hills) but for whatever reason, when he needs to split, he ends up in Switzerland, von Trapp style.

Nevermind that the von Trapps didn’t climb any mountains en masse, as far as Bruce knows, and they most definitely took a train to Italy when they left Austria. His escape isn’t defined by its historical accuracy.

And since he will never fess up to Tony that he’s been walking the mountainside humming Edelweiss for the last six weeks, it doesn’t matter.

Bruce misses Tony. It’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling, to be drawn to something or someone. It seeps around the ever present anger in his mind, and numbs it. It drowns out the images of a helicarrier aiming a gun at him while he’s sitting quietly in an NYU library. He sleeps easier. He smiles more often, even if it’s only to himself. Tony keeps him entertained from 4,000 miles away, mostly with jokes, emoji-abuse, threats of dick pics, and occasional news of SHIELD and Steve and Natasha and what all went down in the end.

Tony’s being cagey about a lot of the details, though. It’s impossible not to notice the questions Tony _won’t_ answer and the way the conversation steers to absurd if Bruce ever asks to know anything too specific. Which means Tony isn’t as accurate as say... CNN, but he’s a hell of a lot more interesting than the latest breaking news.

Bruce is sitting on the floor of an old barn, waiting for a text back from Tony, when he first sees the flash. A man is approaching from a distance, with a bare, metal arm angled to reflect the sunlight directly into Bruce’s eyes. It feels deliberate. Without question he knows who has found him. It’s the Winter Soldier.

It helps his control immeasurably that Bruce has already gotten some of the story from Tony (who had gotten it from Steve) so Bruce knows the Winter Soldier isn’t necessarily on team HYDRA anymore. Everything is okay for now. They’re far enough from civilization that this might not even get ugly.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bruce calls out in warning, as the man approaches. “Please don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”

The soldier walks on, as if Bruce hadn’t spoken at all. His hands are free of weapons, and he keeps them where Bruce can see them. That helps keep the Other Guy from shoving his way to the surface.

When the soldier steps fully into the barn he isn’t what Bruce was expecting. He’s limping ever so slightly. He looks miserably tired. And when he speaks his voice is scratchy and unexpectedly hesitant. Like English doesn’t come as easily as it should.

“You know Steve Rogers,” the soldier says, and it’s almost a question. There’s room for denial, if Bruce has any reason to deny it. He doesn’t.

“I do know him,” Bruce confirms. His own voice is the sound of calm. He is steady. Everyone gets to live (for now). “So do you, I think.”

“No, I don’t,” the soldier says wearily. “I don’t fuckin’ know him. Bucky Barnes knew him and I’m not Bucky Barnes.”

Bruce puts down his phone and telegraphs his movements as he sits it on the ground. They both need to prove that violence isn’t imminent.

“I guess maybe we should introduce ourselves then,” Bruce says, for lack of better conversation.

“I’m Bruce Banner. And you are?”

The soldier’s eyes bore into Bruce. Bruce takes a deep, stilling breath, and lets it out on a four count. The Other Guy is definitely not a fan of the soldier’s sharp gaze.

“A weapon,” the soldier replies finally. “An asset.”

“I more meant your name,” Bruce points out. “Do you have a name?”

For more than a minute the soldier says nothing. Bruce takes that time to catalogue the soldier’s injuries. When the man lets another minute pass without an answer Bruce speaks again.

“I’ve got some food,” Bruce offers.

He knows malnutrition when he sees it. He sees other things too-- tattered clothing, favoring of the left leg, dark shadows under the eyes, shallow breathing, rib retractions-- those aren’t as easily solved as hunger.

“Won’t stay down,” the soldier replies. He sounds weary in a way Bruce understands. Life on the run is a bitch. Doubly so, if you’re sick or injured.

Bruce really isn’t sure where else this will go and the staring contest going on between them only seems to agitate things. Bruce reaches slowly for his backpack and pulls a StarkBar out of a side pouch. StarkBars aren’t technically a thing yet, so much as a side project that Bruce had been working on before he left. On the run they’d been a lifesaver. When Bruce gets back, he and Tony are going to revolutionize food aid.

For now, it’s the best he has to offer.

“This might be different. At least give it a chance?”

 

***New York***

“Breakfast. Eat.”

Tony waves the spongy yellow brick in his hands in front of Steve’s face.

“Later,” Steve says. He’s frowning as he types on his laptop. Steve is always frowning these days.

“You know, when I’m the voice of reason in the whole ‘take care of yourself’ argument, you have hit some bad kind of rock bottom. Just eat the damn BannerBar. I promised your partners in crime I’d keep you fed and watered till they’re back in the states.”

That at least draws Steve’s attention. He turns his eyes slowly up to Tony. “I feel like I’m going to regret asking this, but what’s a BannerBar?”

“Side project. Mostly Bruce’s. Redefining food as we know it. Just eat the damn thing. If you’re going to mope around the tower indefinitely you can at least make yourself useful.”

It’s been 6 weeks since SHIELD fell and 5 weeks since Tony called Steve. Between all of Steve’s efforts and Tony’s satellites stalking they haven’t turned up one single decent lead on the Winter Soldier. Steve has made more than half a dozen trips abroad, and Natasha and Sam have done the same. The only reason Steve’s not on this particular wild goose chase is that he took a bullet a few days before while poking at a Hydra nest and Natasha had threatened to nail Steve’s feet to Stark Tower if he didn’t take a few days off to rest.

“You literally insisted we use the tower as homebase to look for Bucky. You wouldn’t take no for an answer. If you don’t want me here, I’ll go back to Washington.”

Tony doesn’t appear to be listening. Tony’s more interested in laying the sponge down on Steve’s laptop keyboard.

“You’ll get it sticky,” Steve snaps, and snatches the BannerBar away from Tony just to make him stop. “How is eating this sponge going to be useful?”

“I need a taste tester,” Tony shrugs.

“I thought you said this was Bruce’s project.” Steve takes a nibble.

“It is,” Tony sighs. “And until Bruce gets back I’m his R&D Department.” Tony’s phone dings. “That’s him now. Don’t keep him waiting.”

“It’s food,” Steve says blankly. “I don’t know what else you want me to say. It tastes like food.”

“God, are you always this difficult?”

Steve shoves back hard from the table and glares at Tony, which, believe it or not, is a vast improvement over the desolate nothingness that Steve’s stare is most days when Tony checks in on him over the video feed. The life in Steve's eyes only lasts a few seconds and then he breathes out slowly before stuffing the rest of the BannerBar in his mouth.

“Happfy?” Steve mumbles.

“That depends,” Tony says. “Did you taste the lemon?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Steve relents. “Did you tell Bruce about your parents yet? He'd--”

“No,” Tony cuts him off. “I didn’t tell him. What’s done is done and telling Bruce isn’t going to change that. Did you taste any flavor in the BannerBar at all?”

“Bruce would come back if you told him that you need him.” Steve’s voice is firm, like he’s speaking something he knows to be true.

Steve’s probably right, but Tony’s too chickenshit to ask. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to put Bruce in a bad position but the truth is... he really isn’t sure Bruce _would_ return if he asked. Seems pointless to test it out when right now Bruce’s text company is the only thing keeping Tony afloat and it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.

“You’re the worst taste tester ever,” Tony complains.

“Give me another one. I’ll do better.”

Tony’s not sure why Steve’s conceding. Tony’s really not sure about anything that has to do with Steve anymore.

“The next batch should be done in a few minutes,” Tony says. “Come down to the lab. You can try one there.”

“Later,” Steve says.

Tony gets it. Steve doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave his computer for even a second in case JARVIS gets a hit, or Nat and Sam check in.

“If there’s any news, J can send it to your phone. You don’t need to be in this exact spot.”

“Later.”

 

***Switzerland***

“Here, I’ll tear it in half and we’ll split it,” Bruce says.

The soldier considers Bruce’s offer and then steps closer when Bruce reaches out half the spongy yellow bar to him. Bruce is reminded sadly of a stray dog he and Betty used to see on campus back in the day. The poor thing had been about as wary of human kindness and food handouts as the soldier is now. The comparison only amplifies when the man sniffs the food cautiously before taking a hesitant bite.

“It’s meant to be easy to digest,” Bruce says conversationally, as if this isn’t one giant mind fuck unravelling around him. “Should taste like lemon. High calorie. And it has enough fat that it will kind of... slide down. Ummmm... won’t induce thirst, and shouldn’t upset your stomach. Maybe. I haven’t let myself get thirsty enough for it to matter. But here--” Bruce reaches back into his bag for one of the two bottles of water he keeps refilling from a nearby stream. He rolls it to the soldier. “Just in case.”

The soldier stares at the bottle of water with the same intensity he’d stared at Bruce. Bruce gets the feeling it isn’t anything personal.

Eventually the man sits down, more obviously favoring his leg when he has to shift his weight to do it. He ends up facing Bruce, with his back to the door, and that feels odd in the same way it felt odd to see him moving toward the barn out in the open. Bruce has spent enough time around Clint and Natasha that he thinks sightlines are just a given with assassins. So either the soldier doesn’t care if he gets shot in the back of the head, or he’s good enough that he doesn’t need the reassurance of a view.

Or he’s Hydra and there’s backup out there, though that seems like the least likely of the three considering the calm Bruce maintains.

“You mentioned Steve,” Bruce says, bringing up the topic that had started this whole bizarre encounter. “Is there something about him you wanted to know?”

“He’s got eighty-six biographies in print,” the soldier says. His focus is entirely on his food as he takes small bite after small bite.

“Eighty-six, huh?” Bruce asks. “Did you read them all?”

“The ones I could find.”

“Did you read any biographies on Bucky Barnes?”

The soldier’s eyes flick up. “The ones I could find.”

There is the slightest hint of life in the soldier’s stare.

“Did you learn anything interesting?” Bruce asks.

“Bucky Barnes is dead. I’m what they stuffed in his corpse.”

“That sounds painful,” Bruce says, which is the first thing that comes to mind. He hasn’t spoken out loud much lately either so he’s not exactly at top form. He has never been at top form, really, now that he thinks about it. “Is there a specific reason you came to find me?”

Bruce isn’t sure how to get an answer without being awkwardly direct.

“You know Rogers and you would be the most difficult to kill if I couldn’t...” The soldier struggles for words.

Bruce gets it though.

“If you couldn’t stop yourself from killing?” Bruce guesses.

“Yes,” the soldier replies. “I kill. That’s what I do.” He says the words in a different voice. It’s recitation. Rote learning.

“You didn’t kill Steve,” Bruce says carefully. He wants to tread lightly here, since he imagines the soldier’s conditioning makes a failure unacceptable. “You rewrote your mission. That’s... it’s incredible, honestly.”

“He’s an idiot,” the soldier says. For a moment he sounds as young and frustrated as he looks. “I could have killed him. He was going to let me kill him. I... I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Maybe Bucky was protecting his friend?” Bruce asks, not wanting to accidentally program any definites into the soldier. He knows just enough about brainwashing to know he treads on dangerous ground, and that he’s probably already fucking things up. “You said you’re Bucky’s corpse. Maybe there’s more of him left in there than just a body.”

“I don’t have his memories,” the soldier says. “Only his face.”

“It was a guess,” Bruce offers. “Not even an educated one. Maybe wishful thinking on Steve’s behalf. He’s got friends out looking for you.”

“I know,” the soldier says. “He’s an idiot.”

The soldier stands, and despite his natural grace, lists a little on his feet.

“You can stay if you want,” Bruce offers. “I have more food. And a blanket. If Hydra comes looking for you, they’ll have to get through me first.”

“Hydra isn’t looking for me. I went down with the helicarrier. They won’t be looking for you either. They have other objectives.”

“You know that for certain?” Bruce asks.

“Yes.” The soldier’s tone leaves no room for follow up questions.


	2. Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Bucky form a tentative trust. Tony and Steve could use some help.

***SWITZERLAND***

“I’m not ready to go back,” Bruce says, telling the soldier something he hasn’t been able to articulate to Tony yet. “But if no one is coming, I don’t need to be in a barn. We could go somewhere else. Find something remote, with heat and a kitchen. My friend Tony is good at setting up that kind of thing.”

Bruce is 100 percent certain that if he texts Tony with a few parameters, he’ll have them a place before Bruce can finish packing his things. He’s usually shy about accepting Tony’s generosity, but desperate times, and all that.

“I might stay,” the soldier says, stepping over a few feet to a low, square hay bail and then carefully lowering himself onto it. “Will you tell him I’m here?”

“That’s up to you,” Bruce says, assuming the him in this context is Steve. “Steve will probably be upset with me when he finds out I kept you a secret, but your right to privacy trumps his right to know.”

“What about Stark?”

Bruce hadn’t referenced Tony’s last name when he mentioned him as a friend, but it’s no surprise that the soldier put it together.

“I don’t want to put him in the position of keeping a secret from Steve, so no, I don’t plan to tell him either. At least not until you’re comfortable with Steve knowing where you are. I can handle disappointing Captain America.”

“That’s such a stupid name,” the soldier says. 

With the decision made to stick around, something changes in him. Bruce watches the man’s posture relax a little as he leans back against the wall of the barn.

“I take it you didn’t choose to be called the Winter Soldier, then?” Bruce asks.

The soldier shakes his head. “That’s stupid, too. There’s a lot of stuff seems stupid now.”

“There really is,” Bruce agrees. “So what should I call you? Because I’m not going to refer to you as The Corpse of Bucky Barnes. I’m just not.”

The soldier considers it as he finishes the last bite of his StarkBar. “You can call me James.”

“James,” Bruce repeats. “Sounds good. Not stupid at all.”

James nods once.

Bruce takes the opportunity to send his request to Tony, keeping the details as vague as possible. 

“It won’t take Tony long to get back to me. It never does.”

 

***NEW YORK***

Giving Bruce his own text tone was a stroke of genius since Bruce is the one and only person Tony cares to text with at the moment. Bruce’s cheerful ping differentiates him from all the annoying gongs of work and duty and life outside the tower. Usually when a text comes through from Bruce Tony’s on it like lightning, but this time he’s distracted. He’s... well... for lack of a better word... he’s spying. On Steve.

Or, more accurately, he’s spying on Steve’s laptop. 

The first time Tony’d invaded Steve’s privacy, it was a momentary lapse of judgement. A split-second decision to figure out what the hell Steve had been staring at for four days straight. It was back during that first week when Steve had moved in, and he, Romanoff and Wilson had set up shop in the common room.

Whenever Tony would walk by he’d catch them chatting softly over coffee, or passing an old, beat-up folder back and forth, or circling locations on digital maps. Sam and Natasha could even draw a smile out of Steve on occasion. A smile that would disappear the instant they were out of the room. When they were gone, Steve was glued to his laptop and all he did was frown.

For _reasons_ Tony needed to know why. Or well, he knew _why_ but he wanted to know the specific part of their current shitshow that was causing Steve so much pain. So Tony’d typed out a few lines of code to force a sneaky screenshare.

It turned out, Steve’s fixation was on the brainwashing techniques HYDRA’d used on Barnes. Ugly stuff. Old School. Having once been on the receiving end of similar torture, Tony was only able to spy on Steve’s screen for about a minute before he grabbed for the nearest trash can and threw up his dinner.

He’d been eating mostly BannerBars ever since, and that night he’d sworn off the spy game.

For one whole week. 

Then Steve switched to staring at something else and eventually Tony needed to know. If he knew, he could help. So he’d looked again, felt physically ill after reading one paragraph about Barnes’s extracurricular HYDRA uses and sworn off spying yet again.

That had lasted until just now. Steve wasn’t eating (except for the BannerBar Tony’d hassled him into swallowing whole). He was barely drinking. He hadn’t slept. Whatever he’d found, Tony needed to know. Turns out, Steve had found the Winter Soldier's medical experimentation files.

God. 

Every time Tony thinks Barnes’s story can’t get any worse, HYDRA goes and proves him wrong. And the thing is (and this is a nasty thing) (a dark soul blot Tony will never reveal) (not even to JARVIS) (who probably suspects) sometimes Tony feels not quite as terrible as he should about what’s happened to Bucky.

Sometimes Tony gets a bit of cold comfort in knowing that the man who’d killed his parents had paid a price for it. Paid a price 100 times over and would probably continue paying that price for the rest of his life.

This is why Tony is going to hell. This is why Tony hates himself nearly as much as he hates the Winter Soldier. This is why Tony isn’t sure he hates the Winter Soldier at all.

Tony’s phone dings again and this time he grabs for it like a lifeline. He reads through Bruce’s housing request and he’s overwhelmed with relief. The task is a distraction from the ugly place in Tony’s soul that had opened up six weeks ago and continues to fester on the daily.

Tony’s fingers fly over his keyboard. JARVIS helps, of course, and Tony finds Bruce the best house within the location parameters, and he’s careful not to choose anything so over the top that Bruce will regret ever making the request.

Tony lifts his phone, smiles for the camera and gives a thumbs up to text over to Bruce, along with an address. It’s not a real smile, but Tony’s so good at faking happy mischief Bruce will never know.

And as long as Bruce keeps texting, Tony’s not alone.

 

***SWITZERLAND***

“If we’re going to be doing some walking, would you mind if I take a look at your injuries?” Bruce asks. “I think I can make some suggestions without needing to touch you, if that would make you more comfortable.”

James’s skepticism shows on his face. “That matters?” he asks. “My comfort?”

“Yes,” Bruce insists. “Yes, it matters a whole damn lot to me.”

Bruce has a few medical supplies with him, hidden away in a corner with his second bag, and he walks over to dig through it, pulling out anything that looks remotely useful. When he realizes it’s more than an armful, he starts to shove it all back in.

“Let’s start with your knee, if that’s okay?” Bruce asks from across the barn. He glances over his shoulder and James nods.

Bruce slings the strap of the duffel over his shoulder and approaches from the side. “Is the injury internal or external?”

“Haven’t looked,” James says, his face and eyes aim straight ahead. “The leg is functional,” he adds a little hesitantly, as if he’s concerned Bruce might assume otherwise from this report.

And it is a report. There’s a forced effort to James’s voice that Bruce hates more than a little. Not to mention the mess that is James not identifying the leg as his own. Bruce knows dissociation when he hears it.

“Do you think you could show me where you hurt?” Bruce asks.

James lifts his hips off the hay slightly and pushes his too-loose jeans down. There’s nothing underneath and Bruce averts his eyes. It isn’t that he has an issue with nudity. God knows he’s over that by now. He’s just repulsed by the knowledge that James’s dignity has been disregarded for so long that he doesn’t blink at stripping in front of a stranger.

“I more meant rolling the material up over the injury,” Bruce says. “I mean if you’re more comfortable with having them off, that’s fine. Whatever you want. The hay might be itchy is all.”

Bruce forces himself to look at James again. He doesn’t want to make James feel as if he’s done something wrong. Bruce doesn’t doubt his own intentions. He knows he’d never take advantage of anyone in this position so it isn’t like looking is lascivious.

James must notice Bruce’s discomfort, because he pulls the jeans back up quickly, and his body goes tense again. He sits absolutely still and stares straight ahead, the slight tremble in his jaw the only visible evidence that he isn’t a statue. Bruce recognizes the posture. James did something Bruce made obvious he didn’t like and now he’s waiting for punishment.

“I didn’t communicate that well,” Bruce says in the gentlest voice he can manage. “That was my bad. I’m not angry with you. If anything, I’m annoyed with myself for not being more careful.”

James glances up to look at Bruce. “You afraid I’m going to snap?”

“No,” Bruce says. He’s not afraid. “It’s important to me that I know you understand that all this is your choice,” Bruce says, figuring James can handle the honesty. “I-- I don’t have a medical history for you. I don’t know much about you, really. I’m afraid that people who’ve worked with your injuries before didn’t give you the option of telling them to fuck off.”

“There were no options,” James says. “Only obedience. You sure that’s not what you want?”

“God, no,” Bruce says, noticing the way James pauses a moment before each question. Like it’s shameful to want more information. "I want you to feel safe here,” Bruce goes on. “I want both of us to feel safe here.”

After a beat, James lets out his breath and slouches a little. His posture is no longer rigid and Bruce is glad James is relaxing.

“How much do you know about me?” Bruce asks as he sits down on his knees, getting closer to James’s injury without making any move to touch him just yet.

“You’re doctor Robert Bruce Banner, born in Dayton, Ohio, to Dr. Brian and Rebecca Ban--”

“Shit, shit I’m sorry,” Bruce cuts James off with an embarrassingly frantic set of hand flailing. “You’re not doing anything wrong. That’s exactly right, actually. But please don’t continue, with the starting from the beginning and the... me, bits. I can’t.... with my family history.”

Bruce is apologetic in both tone and manner as James freezes. It hadn’t occurred to Bruce when he’d asked that James would know quite that level of detail.

“I asked because... I guess, I wanted you to know I’ve been treated like my body isn’t mine more times than I can count. Sometimes I’m still not even sure it is, if I’m being honest. So when I keep asking you questions, and keep confirming that we’re good here... that’s a lot of my own issues surfacing. I’m sorry about that. I’m kind of a disaster.”

This time James takes a few seconds to process Bruce’s rambling. Then, like before, he nods. 

“Okay.”

“Thanks,” Bruce says. “I’m glad I got that out of my system. I think I’m going to need a minute before I start, though.”

Bruce reaches for the water bottle and sips at it, trying to wash those memories away. The symbolism of the water doesn’t do much to calm his pulse, but a buzz from his phone helps. He pulls it out of his pocket and sees a selfie of Tony grinning brightly while giving the thumbs up sign.

Whatever Tony has set up, the look of enthusiasm in his eyes means Bruce is going to want to headdesk repeatedly when he sees it. Still, it is undeniably awesome that he has a friend. And that that friend is Tony Freaking Stark.

 

***NEW YORK***

Steve sighs when he hears footsteps. Tony’s been gone all of twenty minutes since the BannerBar argument and Steve’s plodding through a part of Bucky’s history that’s making his stomach churn and his blood boil.

“Does come back later mean something different in this century?” Steve snarks. 

He’s really not usually this hostile. Or at least he tries to hide it better. There’s something about Tony that allows Steve to let down his guard in a way he doesn’t do with anyone else. And that’s probably shitty of him because Tony doesn’t deserve his mood. No one does.

“Sorry,” Steve amends. “This is your tower. You can go where you want.”

Tony doesn’t say anything which means Steve has to physically turn to look at him, just to confirm that it’s Tony. It is. And Stark’s looking a lot like he wishes he hadn’t bothered making the trip back up the elevator.

“You said you wanted updates if I heard from anyone,” Tony answers quietly. “Bruce just texted. Wanted a place to stay in Switzerland. That’s all.”

Steve feels a pang of remorse because Tony’s shoulders are set tense and his expression borders on tragic. His only crime (as far as Steve knows) is doing exactly what Steve had asked him to do and for his efforts Steve has been nothing but a total dick.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I’m bad at sitting around. It reminds me of... before.”

Of when he was sick with asthma and allergies and who knows what else. Only back then, these dark moods were aimed at Bucky and Bucky never felt like he needed to take Steve’s shit. Not like Tony does. Tony takes it and takes it and takes it, like somehow he thinks he deserves to be Steve’s emotional punching bag. Like suffering is penance.

They’re both so fucked.

“Bruce texted?” Steve asks, trying hard to make his tone even. Keep it uncomplicated by the sort of desperate misery he’s cocooned himself in. This morning’s reading has been rough. It’s difficult to shake it off long enough to make words work in a polite direction.

“It’s not important,” Tony says. “Sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn’t,” Steve says quickly.

Tony’s expression grows skeptical.

“Okay-- I guess you did. But that’s not on you, it’s on me. I don’t know how to do this. And everything I read makes it ten times worse. The ways they hurt him...”

The confession takes a huge amount of effort and still it’s not very descript. Steve really has no words for what he’s feeling. No adjectives for his abject misery. No verbs for the sobs he buries in his pillow. Language can’t work around the sort of numb and terrible longing that has gripped him since he woke up in the hospital a month and a half before.

“Come with me,” Tony says.

Steve doesn’t move.

“Get your ass out of that chair and come with me,” Tony says before he walks out of the room.

It’s the guilt from his earlier rudeness that gets Steve moving, and maybe also the newish edge in Tony’s voice. Tony’s walking fast but Steve easily catches up. They take the stairs instead of the elevator, down to an R&D floor Steve’s never visited. There’s a kitchen there, and Tony yanks down mugs and plates and dumps them in a cardboard box that had previously held paper towels, according to the print on the side.

“Help me,” Tony says. “We need all of this.”

Steve’s pretty sure Tony’s lost his mind and decided that because Steve hasn’t been eating, he’s about to make a meal for... 40? It doesn’t make much sense but Steve feels obligated to assist. When the box is full to the brim, Tony points at it.

“Pick that up and follow me.”

Tony doesn’t look back as they return to the stairs, and this time they walk all the way up to the roof. Tony’s a little winded when they get to the top but Steve’s fine. Steve’s always fine everyone knows that. (It’s his thing.)

“Put the box down,” Tony says.

“We having a picnic?” Now it’s Steve’s turn to look skeptical.

“No. We’re having a tantrum,” Tony says.

He walks over to Steve, picks up a plate, and hurls it at the Quinjet ramp with as much force as he’s capable. It shatters into dozens of pieces.

“Someone could have used that,” Steve objects half-heartedly.

He’s Captain America. Isn’t that what Captain America’s supposed to say? ‘Hey kids. Don’t be wasteful. Stay in school. Check to make sure your friend is really dead if they fall to the bottom of a canyon.’ Helpful shit like that.

“Yes. I could have used it,” Tony says. “To throw at a ramp. Which is exactly what I did. Try it.”

“I’m not breaking your dishes.”

“And I’m not watching you stare at a computer screen for another 24 hours in a row like a goddamn zombie. It’s not bringing him back.”

Steve’s angry retort dies on his tongue. He glares at Tony, bends down to pick up a plate, and hurls it a hundred miles an hour at the ramp. It hits so hard the pieces turn to dust.

Something unclenches inside Steve and he takes a ragged breath.

“That’s it,” Tony says. “Exactly like that.” 

Tony picks up a mug and flings it at the ramp. It breaks apart with a loud crack and joins the mess on the roof below. “Not quite as impressive as your throw, but it gets the job done.”

Steve doesn’t respond. He just reaches into the box, hooks several mugs with his thumb and then flings them at the nearest wall. Damn if that doesn’t make him feel just the slightest bit better.

“That text from Bruce earlier,” Steve says. “About Switzerland. Did you get him all set up?”

“That’s what I do,” Tony says. “Secluded mountain chalet. Stocked kitchen. Wi-fi. Killer view. He’s going to love it.” 

“Must be nice,” Steve says.

He wonders if Tony can hear the rub there. If he can hear Steve’s lonely bitter frustration that he can’t help Bucky in even the smallest of ways. Or his jealousy that Tony’s best pal texts him morning, noon and night while Steve combs through paragraphs about arm stumps and bone grafts and blood.

Tony doesn’t reply, but he does reach down to pick up a plate and hand it to Steve.

 

***SWITZERLAND***

Bruce turns the phone toward James so he can see the picture Tony sent. In the interest of trust, he’ll show him every text that comes through until James tells him it isn’t necessary. Maybe that show of trust is the push James needs, since that’s when he speaks.

“You can touch my leg to assess my knee,” James says abruptly. “Tell me before you do.”

“Got it,” Bruce says. He pockets the phone, feeling it buzz again as he does. It’s an address that he turns to show James. James nods as if it’s perfectly reasonable to have a safe house in less than a minute. Bruce has earned an iota of trust; he wants to make good on it fast.

“I’m going to roll this up,” he says, gesturing to the material at James’s ankle. “If you need me to stop what I’m doing at any time, say so.”

Bruce looks up at James and waits for a nod before he begins rolling the jeans up over themselves. The smell is unpleasant. There’s no way around that. Thankfully his travels have made Bruce immune to most human-related smells. Hospital cleaner still unravels him, but that’s not a problem here.

Once he sees the knee, he knows there isn’t much he’s going to be able to do in the barn.

“The damage to your knee is internal,” Bruce says, keeping to simple terms to try and help James identify with the words and put together that his knee belongs to him. “Your knee is bruised and swollen. I’d like to press there gently to see if I can tell what’s going on. Is that okay?”

James nods. He also takes a slow breath, bracing for something painful.

The barn is absolutely silent as Bruce ever so carefully thumbs over James’s knee. The kneecap feels structurally intact, though the swelling could be misleading. They need an x-ray machine or similar. Bruce would like to think if the knee is truly jacked up, James wouldn’t have been getting around so well, but that seems optimistic. No doubt he’s got a pain tolerance that’s off the charts.

“When did you injure yourself?” Bruce asks.

“On the helicarrier,” James says. “It lost additional functionality in the days after.”

Bruce feels like there’s significance in that explanation. Unfortunately, dealing with his own mangled emotions is decreasing his ability to concentrate on the problem at hand. There’s reason to believe James has better-than-average healing abilities. So if the knee got worse after the initial damage, something might be impairing that. Malnutrition. Exhaustion. Repeated use. James could have been in shock that day and numb to the pain initially. Or a hundred other possibilities, none of which could be easily ruled out in an Swiss barn.

“I’ll see about getting something to scan you, where we’re going,” Bruce says. “There isn’t much I’m going to be able to do now. I can splint it to keep it straight. I’m just not sure how much that would help.” Bruce scratches behind his ear, wishing he could do more. “I’m going to touch you again to roll your jeans back down.”

When Bruce finishes, James reaches down with his human hand to run it over his knee experimentally.

“Leave it. I can walk,” James says. “If I slow you down, go ahead. I’ll find you.”

“I’m not going to ditch you,” Bruce says. “Your slow is probably my fast, anyway.”

James pushes himself up off the hay and shivers against the cool wind.

“I’ve got extra clothes if you want something extra to keep warm,” Bruce offers.

He stands, and this time carries his duffel bag back to the center of the barn. He pulls out a gray hooded sweatshirt and holds it up.

“Interested?” Bruce asks. “It’s fine with me either way. I won’t be offended if it isn’t your style.”

James looks intently at the offered clothing.

“You can keep it,” Bruce says. “Or burn it. I really don’t care.”

“Give it to me,” James reproaches, limping to grab it from Bruce’s grasp. He looks entirely unimpressed. “Don’t burn things someone could use.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter is a rough one for Steve and Tony, and I just want to reassure y'all (if you're traumatized by all the Tony or Steve hate that floats around) that I love BOTH these characters, and I will take good care of them. So in case you read the painful parts here and are wondering if I'll trash one of your boys, I won't! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! You can find me on Tumblr at [OrbingArrow](http://orbingarrow.tumblr.com). My ask box is always open.


	3. Imagine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Bucky head for cover and Tony and Steve finally talk on the roof.

It only takes them a minute to pack up after James pulls the Stark Industries hoodie over his head. Bruce doesn’t let himself take a picture even though he figures Tony would be exuberant there’s a 90 something-year-old assassin decked out in Stark gear. Before SHIELD fell, Tony’d been working for months to get a tiny Stark logo on Steve. Anywhere.

“If the first one’s sitting okay in your stomach, would you like another StarkBar?” Bruce asks, pulling one out for himself as well.

James looks no more trusting this time than he looked before. He still unwraps it like a bomb. He still sniffs it cautiously. But when he takes a bite, it’s a proper bite, and not the nibble from earlier.

“S’good,” James says, once they’re walking down the path that will lead to a road that will lead to the address Tony has texted. “Everything else causes a malfunction.”

It’s obvious these aren’t common words or concepts for him. Bruce thinks it’s a good sign he can express this shit at all.

“You mentioned that,” Bruce says. “I’m going to guess since they were freezing and thawing you, they were giving you liquid nourishment? Solids could pose a logistical problem to that process. Obstructions and ice damage would be trouble throughout your digestive track.” He looks to James for clarification.

James nods.

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep, but if you’re tolerating StarkBars, I don’t think it will take long to build up to other things. It’s probably not a permanent malfunction. We can work on it together, if you’re interested. ”

James’s shoulders stiffen. They hike on and he doesn’t reply for an awkwardly long time.

“Every time you say you want to help me, I wonder if I should kill you,” James says. 

Which is more awkward than the silence, now that it’s out in the air.

Still, it isn’t much of a threat. It sounds a lot more like a warning and the sort you get from someone who is so lost and confused that they’d rather push you away than deal with the problems at hand. 

“I really don’t think you could, if that helps,” Bruce says. “But even if I thought it was possible, I wouldn’t run. I’d like to help you if you’ll let me.”

The glare James gives him would be intimidating if Bruce didn’t swear he saw a hint of grudging fondness in it somewhere.

“That’s why you and Rogers are friends,” James grumps. “You’re both idiots.”

“I’d like to think having some faith in people isn’t always pure stupidity.” Bruce contemplates his next words carefully before speaking. “The first time I met Steve he shook my hand. Which probably doesn’t sound like much but-- that’s just not the reaction I expect. Or get. Ever. People who know what I am run away if they have any sense of self-preservation. And I can’t really put into words how I feel about the people who don’t run.”

“You got a lot of those people?”

“No,” Bruce says. “But Steve’s one of a handful. And Tony.”

“Rogers said he didn’t want to hurt me,” James says, after Bruce’s words sit in the air for a while. “People have said that before.”

“To me, too,” Bruce says. “And you’re smart not to trust words alone. I think actions make for much better data. And right now Steve’s actions indicate he’s not going to give up looking for you any time soon. Why do you think that is?”

“He’s looking for Bucky Barnes,” James growls. “And that ain’t me. Him wantin’ his friend back isn’t gonna change a thing.”

 

***NEW YORK***

When the plates and mugs are nothing but shards and dust, Steve picks up the empty box and walks toward the pile.

“Leave it,” Tony says. “I’ve got bots for that.”

Steve ignores him and drops to his knees to pick up the bigger pieces one by one. “I prefer to clean up my own messes.”

Tony replays Steve’s words a couple of times in his head to sort out whether Steve’s insulting him. He decides it sound more like Cap is berating himself.

“Is that what this is all about?” Tony asks.

“Me picking up glass? Yeah.”

“Not the glass,” Tony clarifies. He walks over to join Steve and kneels down to help him with the clean-up. “Barnes. You blame yourself for what happened to him so now you’re the one who’s going to clean up the mess. Even if it gets you killed.” It’s not a question. A question would be pointless when Tony already knows the answer.

"That mess is his life," Steve replies. "If it was me, he'd help. He wouldn't hesitate.”

Tony can’t help the skepticism he knows is written all over his face. “The old Barnes, sure. The only thing that’s going to give the Winter Soldier any pause is whether to shoot you in the chest or the back.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re wrong. He had his chance to kill me. He’s had _multiple_ chances. He didn’t take them. Somewhere deep down he knows who I am. I know he does.”

“You’re willing to risk your life on that?”

“If we don’t find him, HYDRA will and I’ll be damned if I let that happen on my watch,” Steve insists. “I have to do what I think is right. That doesn't mean you have to like it.”

Tony puts his hands on his knees and pushes up to stand. There’s definitely a part of him that wants to argue. About the complexities of super soldier brainwashing. About the video from the bridge in DC and of the fight down at ground level. About the _multiple gunshot wounds_ Steve received on the helicarrier. But Tony knows he might as well be punching the wind. Steve’s got that backed-into-a-corner look in his eye and nothing good will come from a confrontation. Not when he’s like this.

“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” Tony says doubtfully. 

“If you’ve got something to say, say it,” Steve challenges.

“You don’t want my thoughts on this, Cap.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

Tony gives Steve a small, sharp smile. “You might be surprised.” 

He turns his back and starts to walk away but Steve still isn’t letting it go because of course he isn’t. 

“I don’t expect you to think kindly of him,” Steve calls from behind him. “I don’t expect you’ll ever forgive him. I don’t even expect that you’ll ever forgive _me_. But all of that leaves me with one big question and I’m not going to get an answer if you walk away.”

Tony stops. It’s curiosity that makes him turn. (Someday he will learn his lesson about curiosity) (Unless he runs through all 9 lives first.)

“Ask then,” Tony demands. “You want to know something, just ask.”

“Why did you invite us to the tower? Why help at all if you think this is for nothing?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says.

“I don’t believe you,” Steve responds. 

He’s still on his knees, and he’s glaring at Tony like he honesty believes Tony’s hiding these answers to be a dick. Like somehow Tony’s the key to making it all make sense. Which is utter bullshit, because Tony’s flying just as blind as the rest of them.

“I fix things,” Tony says finally. “Not always because I want to.”

Steve lets the words hang in the air like he needs to slot them into place before he can respond. 

“Fixing’s just another word for cleaning up other people’s messes. You know that right?”

“Sounds like, doesn’t it?” Tony forces down the urge to fight. When he speaks again he manages to dial down the hostility a notch. “Barnes needs brought in. It’s not safe for him to be out there on the loose. But what you’re going to do with him once you’ve got him-- once he’s here--” Tony shrugs. “I’ve got no fix for that.”

“I figured you’d want to press charges,” Steve says plainly. “And that’d be my next mess.”

Tony's not going to have this conversation while Steve is literally on his knees and Tony’s standing over him. So he sits. 

“I’ve thought about it,” Tony agrees, once he’s tucked his knees comfortably to the side. “But it’s not like that would bring mom and dad back. I have my doubts it would make me feel any better. And as much as I can’t believe I’m saying this-- it isn’t all about me.”

“That’s--” Steve starts. Then he stops. His eyes are a little shiny at the edges. When he speaks, his voice is a lot more conciliatory. “That’s really good of you.”

“It’s really not,” Tony says. “Can’t hurt Barnes without hurting you. Can’t hurt you without feeling like I kicked a puppy. There’s no easy answers here.”

“What would you do if you were me?” Steve asks. He sits down, mirroring Tony.

“I don’t know,” Tony says.

“What would you do if this was about Rhodey?”

Tony glances at the edge of the roof. If he calls for the suit _before_ he jumps, the suit will catch him before he hits the ground. Drastic, sure, but way more pleasant than this line of questioning. As far as messages go, Tony’s pretty sure it will get his point across: He doesn’t want to think about it.

He looks back at Steve (since throwing himself off the building is probably a little dramatic) and Steve’s fiddling with the strings of his hoodie and not making eye contact and looking vulnerable and sad. In the six soul-sucking weeks they’ve spent in Bucky Barnes limbo, all the other times he’s seen Steve this somber it’s been on the video feed when Steve was alone. In front of Natasha and Sam and Tony, Steve always stays strong. But here, now, Steve’s letting that go. The least Tony can do is give his question a shot.

“Give me a second to think,” Tony insists.

Steve nods.

It’s hard at first. Rhodey’s the most decent person Tony knows; that’s why he loves him. The thought of his very best friend becoming a soulless killer is almost impossible to imagine. _Almost._ Tony closes his eyes. There’s too much light and noise to get it right unless he cuts himself off from the outside world.

It helps (and helps is not the right word here because it’s an awful gift sometimes) that Tony’s got such a vivid imagination. It also helps that Tony’s seen Steve’s laptop screen of horrors and has loads of HYDRA acquired data sitting there in his brain, ready to paste itself onto Rhodey.

Because Tony can picture it if he really tries. 

Rhodey alone in a dark cell. More than picture it, Tony can _feel_ the damp in the chilly air. Wet in his lungs. This is somewhere Tony’s been before. 

Rhodey strapped to a chair. Tony smells the blood and the electricity. The tang of a car battery and burning skin. 

Rhodey begging for help that’s never gonna come. Tony had Yinsen. Tony didn’t face his fate alone. 

The images come faster. Rhodey gone and whatever is left in his place, blank and impassive. Rhodey stripped of all humanity. Rhodey with his hand around Maria’s neck.

A wave of nausea hits Tony and he sucks in a breath of air. His eyes fly open and he looks straight at the sun to dislodge the images. He’s confident he’s gonna see them again in a nightmare soon enough.

“I’d save him,” Tony says, not doubting himself for a minute. He looks back at Steve and the sun spots fade from his vision. “Whatever it took.” 

He would never leave Rhodey to that fate. It’s not even a question.

Steve looks at him with apology in his eyes. “So you understand why I’ve got to do this? Why it has to be me?”

“I get it,” Tony agrees. “But keep in mind, I’m not known for my spectacular decision making skills when I’m emotionally compromised and I don’t _get_ more emotionally compromised than when it comes to Rhodey or Pepper. Where I think I’d be screwed-- and where so far you’re not doing any better-- is that getting yourself shot is not going to bring him back.”

Steve shrugs. “Well neither is sitting on my ass.”

Tony chokes on a laugh. “Don’t think I’m ever going to get used to Captain Potty Mouth.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Ass is in the Bible. Can’t be that bad.” And then he smiles. 

The smile’s small and slightly pained but Tony can feel that something’s changed. That the wall that’s built up between them for the last six weeks has lowered a couple of inches. It makes it a whole lot easier to breathe.

And since Tony’s never left well enough alone a day in his life, he finally allows himself one question of his own.

“You really think Barnes can be saved?” Tony asks.

“I’ve got to believe that he can.”

“Sirs, I am sorry to interrupt,” JARVIS speaks in stereo from all around the roof, “but the quinjet is incoming. You have two minutes to leave the landing area.”

“You want me to head back in?” Tony asks.

“Stick around if you want,” Steve says. “We’ve only been going quiet when you walk in the room because a search and rescue for the guy who killed your parents doesn’t sound like something that ought to be forced in your lap.”

“I knew what I was doing when I offered the tower.”

They stand and Steve carries the box of shards with him as they walk toward the entrance of the penthouse to wait. The silence is much less awkward now than it’s been in weeks. Probably because it’s no longer full of things that need to be said. 

When the jet lands and Natasha and Sam stroll out the back, they both look surprised to see Tony.

“Decide to join the party?” Natasha asks.

“I like cake and balloons, what can I say?”

Natasha gives Tony a genuine smile. “Glad you decided to join us, Iron Man.”

Sam pats Steve on the shoulder as he walks past. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Another dead end?” Steve asks.

“Inside,” Natasha says. “Then we’ll talk. We good to stay up here?” she asks Tony.

“Mi casa es su casa,” Tony says, gesturing inside the penthouse.

Natasha leads the way in, and sets herself up at the bar, perching on a chair like she owns the place. She pulls out a stack of crumpled, scribbled-on note cards and some old, blurry security cam photos. The Winter Soldier is visible in several of them.

“Barnes wasn’t in the city,” Sam says. “We’re pretty sure he wasn’t on the continent. But he was there at some point in time. These prove it.”

“Pulled them from a train station locker,” Natasha says. “It’s not a language I recognize.”

“Might be shorthand notes to himself,” Sam says. “We’ve already asked JARVIS to see if he can make heads or tails of it.”

“I think we need to consider the reality that we aren’t going to find him until he’s ready to be found,” Natasha says. “He’s too good.”

“We’re not giving up,” Steve objects.

“So what-- we wait for him to walk himself into the tower?” Tony asks.

“All chasing him has done so far is drive him further underground,” Sam says. “If he goes any farther south, we’re gonna be interrogating penguins.”

There’s silence at the table. A genius, a super soldier, the queen of spies, and Colonel Sanders... all stumped.

“Have we tried inviting him?” Tony asks.

“No address,” Sam deadpans. “Believe it or not, he’s working hard to stay off my Christmas Card list.”

“I like you,” Tony says. “You’re terrible.”

“To answer your question, no. We haven’t tried an invitation,” Steve says slowly. Tony can see the strategy wheels turning. 

“An invitation isn’t the worst plan I’ve heard,” Natasha says slowly.

“JARVIS could broadcast a message,” Tony says. “Something... I dunno... old-timey. Something he might notice.”

“I might have some ideas on that,” Steve says. “Codes we used in the war.”

“What do we say?” Sam asks.

“We offer amnesty,” Tony says.

Natasha leans forward in her chair. “Is amnesty ours to offer?”

“I’ve got a lot of people who owe me favors,” Tony says. “Not all of them are at the bottom of the Potomac. And no one needs to know he’s here until we’ve got some kind of deal in place.”

Steve shakes his head. “It won’t work. It looks too much like we’re setting a trap.”

Sam gestures vaguely toward Tony. “Are we all absolutely sure that’s not what this is?” 

“You think I climbed into the sandbox to sabotage your efforts?” Tony asks.

“He killed your parents,” Sam says. “I wouldn’t blame you for trying.”

“This isn’t a trap,” Tony dismisses. The accusation doesn’t surprise him, but it does sting. 

“I trust him, Sam,” Steve says.

“Yeah but you also trust the guy who filled you up with bullets, so I’m hoping you can see where I’m coming from.” Sam looks at Tony. “I’m not trying to be a dick.”

“I get it,” Tony says. “I’m the wild card, here. And for the record, I’m with you on Steve’s trust issues. Shoot me once, shame on you. Shoot me six times...”

Natasha taps on the table before it gets any further. “It’s not a trap, Sam. That’s not Stark. And the suggestion’s moot anyway, because Steve is right. It won’t work. Barnes is running on survival instincts. He’s not going to stroll up to the tower and hope for the best.”

“What would have worked on him back during the war?” Tony asks. “You said you think he’s in there, Steve. What would bring him running?”

“Me in danger,” Steve says.

“Yeah, but that might also bring him in guns blazing,” Sam points out. “That could get ugly fast.”

“Was his protective streak only for you or was he out to save everybody?” Natasha asks.

“Anyone. Everyone,” Steve confirms. “Why? What are you thinking?”

“We leak a press release,” Natasha says. “Make it sound like the feds are going to charge someone innocent with one of Barnes’s crimes. Give a number the public can call if they have more information then hope like hell that JARVIS is better at tracking calls than Barnes is at hiding them.”

“With time to prepare,” JARVIS chimes in, “I believe I could be.”

Steve nods. “Then let’s get to it.”

 

***SWITZERLAND***

Bruce can’t shake the feeling he ought to call his friends. He won’t, because James clearly isn’t ready for it, but it’s a thought that itches in his brain while they walk. It feels a lot like guilt.

Back at the barn, Bruce had shown the texted address to James and figured they’d use a map to find their way, which would have at least given Bruce somewhere else to focus. They don’t need a map, though. James may be hobbled but he’s walking with purpose. He absolutely knows the way.

A few hours pass in near silence before they get to the right town and it’s on the other side of that town, past the outskirts, up a lengthy, steep climb, that they find their temporary home. The small chalet could have easily been the inspiration for the evil witch’s cottage in the Hansel and Gretel story. It’s gingerbread brown, with icing white window shutters and dozen of suncatchers dangling like colorful glass candy. There’s a balcony that stretches all around, but only a few windows.

“Subtle,” Bruce remarks. He glances at James who looks... concerned. “I know it looks odd but I’m sure it’s safe. And no one knows we’re here.”

“He does,” James says, eyeing the house like it might eat them.

“Tony?” Bruce asks. “Yes, he does, but he won’t show up unannounced. Okay-- probably he won’t show up unannounced. Like... 50/50 at worst and I can ask him to leave.”

“Not Tony Stark,” James says, finally turning his face to look at Bruce before pointing halfway up a separate mountain, a mile or so away. “Him.”

Bruce feels all the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Logic keeps him in control. James isn’t upset and he isn’t aiming his guns anywhere. Honestly, he doesn’t seem nearly as alarmed by the distant intruder as he does by the cutesy-wootsy house. Bruce can at least take a breath.

“Is this a friendly?” Bruce asks.

“He’s one of yours,” James says. “Your archer. You didn’t know he was tracking you?”

“What?” Bruce asks. “No. No, I didn’t know Clint was anywhere around here. Do you mind if I call him?”

James gives his head a slight shake then sits down on the wooden porch to wait. Bruce isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t trust him, or if he just doesn’t want to go in the house alone. Regardless, Bruce pulls out his phone and pulls up Clint’s number. It only rings once and then Clint is on the line.

“Look, I can explain. It’s not what it looks like.”

Clint isn’t fragile like James, but he’s got his own issues. Bruce keeps his voice calm.

“It looks like you’re halfway up a mountain, following me around the Alps."

“Well, shit. Then it’s exactly how it looks," Clint admits. "But, I’m not aiming an arrow at you or anything.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Bruce says. “But can we not do this over the phone? Come down to the house. I need to get James inside and contact Tony about some medical supplies.”

“If Stark knows you’re running around with the Winter Soldier he’s probably halfway over the Atlantic right now. It won’t be pretty.”

“I haven’t told Tony I’m not traveling alone yet,” Bruce says. “And please call him James. He thinks the Winter Soldier sounds stupid.”

Bruce’s eyes are on James, and it’s a relief when he sees him smirk infinitesimally at Bruce's explanation of his name. 

“Right,” Clint says. “Can I just apologize now, though, real quick? I was watching, but not _watching_ , you know? I wasn’t making assassination plans if you weren’t behaving yourself, I swear. You could have fucked up whole villages. It wasn’t my business.”

“Clint. We’re good,” Bruce assures him. “I’m not upset.”

“Okay. I just don’t want you whipping out the Eyes of Disappointment when you see me. You can break people with that shit.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Bruce says, chuckling at Clint’s observations. “Do me a favor: keep where I am and who I’m with under wraps until we can talk about it all of us together.”

“Affirmative. Coming down now,” Clint agrees. “See you in a few.”

Bruce hangs up the call and turns his attention back to James.

“You didn’t know he was tracking you,” James says, repeating the thought from before the call.

“I swear I didn’t,” Bruce says. “I’m not surprised; I just didn’t expect it. I wasn’t trying to trap you or withhold information. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I noticed him before I got to the barn,” James says noncommittally. “If I was going to kill him, I’d have killed him then.”

“Well, that’s good?” Bruce says, realizing then what an obvious mistake he’s made. “I can call him back and tell him I can meet him down the road. I should have asked for your permission before I invited him to the house.”

“Why?” James asks in a tone of thick disapproval. With only one word he manages to effortlessly convey that his opinion has never meant anything to anyone before, so it’s stupid that Bruce suddenly wants to take it into consideration now.

“Because we’re both supposed to feel safe here? I should have asked you if Clint was going to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“He’s on my list,” James says, glancing back toward the mountain where Clint had been watching. “I'd have found him eventually. All your other friends, too.”


	4. Bogota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye shows up at the chalet with rough news and James agrees to a phone call with Steve.

***Switzerland***

Bruce hadn’t noticed James pulling out guns from anywhere, but now he holds one in each hand. Bruce follows him into the house and while James stalks around checking for danger, Bruce checks the fridge. It’s fully stocked. There’s also a pile of new clothes on the dining table, which appear to be a random assortment of non-descript athletic pants, plain t-shirts, pajamas, socks and the like. Exactly what a person who’d been on the run for six weeks would appreciate.

He follows James further into the house and discovers it really is perfectly suited to their needs. It’s one story, fully furnished, and in addition to the living room and kitchen, it has two bedrooms and one large bathroom. There’s a modern minimalist decorating scheme consistent throughout, with lots of light colors set against dark wood that Bruce finds calming. It also has very few windows. If you want to take in the view you’d need to go outside to sit on the large, wrap-around deck, and that’s not a problem since it will give Bruce or James some breathing space if either of them start to feel confined. Clint too, if he decides not to run.

Bruce is done with his inspection in under five minutes. It’s going to take James longer since he’s peering suspiciously in every closet, pulling out every drawer, and inspecting under the beds with a thoroughness that leaves Bruce confident if there’s so much as an ant in the house, James will find it and escort it out the door.

He leans against the kitchen counter to text Tony ‘thank you.’ He doesn’t type any more than that just yet because Tony’s generosity-- his attention to all these small things-- is overwhelming to Bruce. No one, for years, has cared so much.

“All clear,” James reports, coming to stand in the center of the living room. He looks exhausted, despite his rigid posture.

“Good. Then you can sit down and rest,” Bruce says, before correcting himself to make it less of an order. “If you want to sit, that is. It might be good for you? There are some frozen vegetables here that we can use for an ice pack.”

Bruce opens the freezer and pulls down a bag of peas. “I’d like to put this on your knee to see if it helps. Doctors sometimes use ice to decrease blood flow to an area and reduce swelling.”

James’s eyes widen slightly and he doesn’t say anything in protest but Bruce can feel the force of words that aren’t there. James’s face is a study in controlled misery and he takes in sharps breath as he goes still. 

“Ice. Right,” Bruce says, after a beat. “I’m sorry. That was... not a helpful thing to suggest. What about soaking in a warm bath? That can loosen up the muscles a little so it won’t hurt as much if I need to reposition your knee.”

James goes ragged with relief. “I saw a bathtub.”

“Warm, but probably not hot, if you can tolerate that?” Bruce suggests. “And if you would like any of those clean clothes to change into after, grab whatever looks good to you. There’s plenty for us both.”

James nods, picks up a few things from the table, and disappears down the hall. It's hard for Bruce not to worry. Bruce doesn’t know if James has a complicated relationship with water due to any HYDRA torture. He doesn’t know if the metal arm needs special care if it gets wet. He can’t even be sure that Bucky’s been given the option of a bath in the last 70 years or what decade hot water taps were invented. 

What Bruce does know is that fussing over James like a child is infantilizing, so he’s just going to chill the fuck out and give him some space. James can fly a jet; he can figure out water knobs and a bathtub stopper.

As Bruce hears the water begin to run he’s distracted by a knock at the door. 

 

***NEW YORK***

“Come in,” Steve calls.

The door swings open and Natasha walks in before tugging the door closed behind her.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

“Nothing yet. I just got a text from Clint,” Natasha says. “You said you wanted updates.”

She tosses Steve her StarkPhone. A text conversation is displayed on the screen using the secure channel Tony’s set up for all the Avengers.

 **Hawkeye:** Operation: If I’m not in Peru I’m in trouble. Take 2.  
**Hawkeye:** Bout to do something stupid.  
**Widow:** Perth stupid or Budapest stupid?  
**Hawkeye:** Bogotá stupid.  
**Widow:** If you die I will find you and I will kill you.  
**Hawkeye:** Fingers crossed!  
**Hawkeye:** Hawkeye OUT.

“I thought the whole reason we have a secure chat is so we don’t spend all day texting in code,” Steve says as he reads it through a second time.

“It’s a hard habit to break,” Natasha says. “I’m sure you get the gist of it.”

Steve nods then tosses Natasha back her phone. “Do I even want to know what happened in Bogotá?”

Natasha gives a small shrug. “Clint nearly died because he did something reckless. Nothing out of the ordinary there.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Europe,” Natasha says. “No more than that. The less we know, the less there is to give away in case of capture.”

“Cheerful,” Steve muses. “You want to stick around for a bit? Tony suggested I spend some more time on the plan for what we’re going to do with Bucky once we get him here. I know we’ve discussed it at a high level but the actual details...”

Natasha climbs onto the bed with the grace of a cat and steps over Steve before wedging herself into the corner where the wall meets the mattress.

“Go ahead. Make yourself at home,” Steve chuckles.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Natasha says with a smirk. “You seem... better.”

“I wouldn’t say better,” Steve disagrees. Not better by a long shot but she’s not wrong. Something small has shifted. And while he’s far from being okay he’s definitely not as miserable he was when he woke up that morning.

“Does it have anything to do to with Stark joining the team?”

“It’s a relief to know he doesn’t hate me,” Steve admits. “At least I don’t think he hates me anymore. With him it’s hard to tell.”

“No,” Natasha says. “It’s not.”

She leaves it there and Steve looks up from his StarkPad in slight exasperation. “Anyone ever tell you that talking to you is like riddling with the Sphinx?”

“I take that for the compliment it is,” Natasha says. 

Steve expects her to continue, but again she doesn’t, and she looks incredibly smug about leaving it there.

“Let me see what you’ve got so far,” she says instead.

Steve hands her his StarkPad and she reads over his notes. “You know... no matter how we play this, to Barnes it’s going to be a trap. I still think it’s the way we proceed. We just need to prepare for some resistance.”

“The press release isn’t a trap,” Steve says. “It’s more of a bait and switch.”

“Always looking for a technicality.” Natasha teases gently. 

“I am not.”

She drops her voice to a lower pitch and says in a vaguely Brooklyn accent, “Feet off the dash. We’re only _borrowin’_ this truck.”

“Is that supposed to be an impression of me?” Steve asks. It’s _terrible_.

“Maybe,” Natasha hedges. “Sam does it better. You should ask to see it when he gets back from DC.”

“Did he say if he’s coming back tonight?”

“Not until the morning,” Natasha says. “He said he needed a night in his own bed and that you’d understand.”

“I do,” Steve agrees. 

“What about you?” Natasha asked. “Ever miss your old place?”

Steve thinks it over. Thinks about the lonely nights he’d spent in that flat in DC. Remembers the night he found Fury in the dark. Ears everywhere. The gun shot. The chase. The Winter Soldier.

“No. Not at all,” Steve says plainly. “It never once felt like home.”

 

***SWITZERLAND***

When Bruce opens the door, Clint is standing there with his hands up in surrender and a nervous grin.

“No guilt eyes?” Clint asks.

“No guilt eyes,” Bruce confirms. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

He steps aside so Clint can enter and watches as he takes in the room like a good sniper should. Exits. Windows. Where to stand to not get shot from outside. Clint moves out of the sightlines and hops up on the kitchen counter to sit with his legs dangling over the edge.

“He’s in there running a bath?” 

“You’d know if I snuck in here with with anyone else,” Bruce points out. “And yes, that’s James. I’m not 100 percent sure he won’t kill you when he comes out, so if you’d rather us take a walk, I can leave a note.”

“Eh, if I stopped hanging out with people who I’m 100% sure won’t kill me I’d be down to my dog... and maybe Steve. Maybe.” Clint gives it a second more of thought then shrugs. “I guess that’s all to say, I’m not too worried. I know you’ve got my back. What’s he like?”

“You can see for yourself when he comes out,” Bruce says, not really wanting to say much about James behind his back. “I think I’d rather talk about why you’ve been following me around Austria, but didn’t stop by to say hello. I wouldn’t have minded the company.”

“I didn’t follow you to Austria on purpose,” Clint says. “The day SHIELD fell, I had just gotten off a plane in New York from four weeks off grid. I was still in the airport when I got a text from Natasha. It was one word-- our go word-- and nothing else. I got on the first plane out, and ended up in London. I had some options from there, and-- you know how we watched that singing nun movie at Christmas? Climb every mountain and goats and stuff? I looked up where the movie was filmed and ended up in Salzburg.”

Which just makes Bruce laugh. “That’s where you saw me? That was six weeks ago.”

“I’ve only been following you off and on,” Clint says. “I’d wait for you to get settled, make sure it was safe and no one was trailing you, then I’d go explore for a bit. Tasha brought me up to speed on what had gone down. It seemed like a good idea for you and me to stick together.”

“Except for the part where I didn’t know you were around,” Bruce points out.

“Well, yeah. Except for that part,” Clint says. “But I wasn’t sure you didn’t know. I know you’ve said before that Hulk can sense those things even when you’re all... you shaped.”

“The Other Guy can sense danger. Sometimes. If I’m paying attention. You wouldn’t register as danger.”

Clint looks pleased by that thought then he frowns. “Neither did the Winter Soldier.”

Clint’s eyes go to the hallway, but there’s a sort of splashing sound as the water stops so Clint continues.

“He’s bad news, Bruce. I know what went down with him and Steve, and if there’s ever been anyone who appreciates seconds chances it’s me. But just-- don’t get your hopes up that he’s not gonna try and murder us both in our sleep. That’s gonna take time. Scruples don’t happen overnight.”

“I believe you.”

There’s a look on Clint’s face that gives away just how much it means to him that Bruce values his opinion. If Bruce was a hugger he’d have reached for Clint, but he isn’t so he just walks past him to the fridge and pulls out two bottles of beer instead. He slides one down the counter to Clint, and then opens the other for himself.

“Must be nice to have a billionaire science boyfriend,” Clint says. “This is the good stuff.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. Clint knows damn well that Tony isn't his boyfriend and their friendship has no romantic basis. "Science boyfriends" just seems to be a thing Clint and Natasha like to toss around when Bruce and Tony have been cooped up in a lab together for a couple days and both walk out with rumpled clothes and mussed up hair. 

Bruce is just happy to have any kind of friendship at all.

For a few minutes they chat about less important things. Bruce finds out Clint broke into the famous gazebo from the movie, and Clint laughs hard at Bruce's story about laying down to sleep only to realize his head is resting in cow--

“Holy shit!” Clint exclaims.

The holy shit has Bruce spinning around in alarm, since Clint’s not the most flappable guy around. But it’s nothing bad... just James. And James doesn’t even look particularly menacing. He’s standing there in plaid pajama bottoms and no shirt. The most intimidating part of him is his metal arm and his metal hand is clutching dirty clothes so not a gun at least.

“James, this is Clint Barton. Clint, this is James,” Bruce introduces for lack of anything more enlightening to say.

“Sorry, man,” Clint apologizes, “That’s not the most polite hello I’ve ever made happen. You surprised me. I’d been listening for you to get out of the bath or head this way and then I look away for a second and you’re there. I’m impressed.”

Clint does look impressed. Bruce actually smiles into his beer at the visible awe on his face. There really aren’t many people who can surprise the Amazing Hawkeye.

“You’re an assassin,” James says.

“Now if I told you that, I'd have to kill you," Clint deadpans.

Bruce tenses, because seriously Clint, _not funny_ , but James chokes out a laugh. Just one, but well-- apparently he got the joke.

"I'm a lot of things,” Clint begins again, “but mostly I'm the guy who’s been straight up creeping on Bruce for the last 6 weeks. Not you know... sexually. Just. Protectively.”

Clint flashes a smile at Bruce and Bruce tries to look stern but his smile gives him away.

“I had my back to you in the barn,” James says.

“I noticed that, yeah,” Clint says. “And if I thought you were there to hurt Bruce, I'd have taken the shot. But I don't want to hurt you. I wasn’t out trying to rescue you, either. That’s Steve’s deal. Which-- look, I get you don’t want him to know where you are, but he’s out busting his ass looking for you and dragging along my best friend in the process. And since Cap’s scared you’ve been captured by HYDRA he’s landed them in some dangerous places. Got himself shot the other day.”

James looks at Bruce. “See?” James demands. “ _Idiot._ ”

“I’m not going to disagree with you,” Bruce says. “But Clint brings up a good point. Would you consider letting me call Steve to tell him you’re with us and ask him to back off until you’re ready to see him? Then he’ll have no reason to keep running into trouble. It’s up to you. It’s not your job or responsibility to protect him. I just think it might give you and him _both_ some peace of mind.”

Clint gives a slight nod. “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

James sighs, sounding incredibly put out. “Fine. Call ‘em. Tell him to stop looking.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says, and sounds relieved. “I know he’s going to ask-- are you interested in meeting him at some point?”

James looks conflicted and annoyed. “I’m _not_ Bucky Barnes. There’s no one for him to meet.”

“You don’t owe him anything. You don’t owe me anything. So when I put this out here-- take it or leave it,” Bruce says, wanting to be extremely careful about applying any pressure at all. “Even though you aren’t Bucky Barnes, that doesn’t leave you as a no one. I’ve enjoyed meeting you. I think you seem interesting and I hope I get to know you better before you decide to leave. Steve might like that, too. He’s a good guy.”

“He’ll try and have you keep me here,” James says..

“Dude,” Clint says, with a sort of disarming, midwestern charm that Clint manages to make seem natural. “I’m not bragging when I say I’m one of the best and you just got the drop on me out of that bath like it was nothing. We aren’t keeping you here. I’m not, because I know it’d be pointless, and Bruce won’t, because he’s as decent as they get. If you want to go, we wouldn’t stop you, even if we could.”

Bruce nods his agreement. James huffs then sits down hard on the couch.

“Make it so I can hear the call.”

Bruce pulls out his phone. He dials Steve’s number and hopes to god he answers it so Bruce doesn’t have to leave the most awkward voicemail ever. Steve picks up on the first ring. 

“Bruce? Is everything okay?” Steve asks, and it’s obvious he cares. There’s worry in his voice.

“Yeah. Yes, everything is fine,” Bruce confirms. “Better than fine maybe. Ummm. I guess there’s no non-dramatic way to put this, so I’m just going to say it. I’m here with Clint and James. The James Barnes you’re looking for.”

The line goes silent. The silence lasts long enough that Bruce speaks again.

“Steve?”

“I’m here,” Steve affirms. There’s a rough quality to his voice. “You’re with Bucky?”

Bruce sees James stiffen in his seat. “He asked me to call him James,” Bruce explains. “He doesn’t remember anything about his life as Bucky and he doesn’t much identify with that name. But he’s here and he’s safe. We’re all looking out for each other.”

“Wait, what? Where are you?” Steve asks. There’s a shuffling in the background and Bruce can picture Steve grabbing his go bag and pulling on his shoes.

“That’s complicated,” Bruce says. “He’s not ready to see you, yet. When he’s ready he says he’ll find you. Please don’t ask Tony for our location. I don’t want to put him in the middle of this.”

There’s another long pause and then a thud. Either Steve’s kicked something or he’s dropped to the floor. Bruce can’t tell.

“I want to see him,” Steve says helplessly. 

Bruce flinches a little from the sorrow in Steve’s voice. It’s raw pain.

“You’ll see me when I’m ready,” James chastises. “Stop chasin’ me. And stop bein’ stupid with your safety.”

Clint gives Bruce a look that manages to say ‘this fucking sucks” very eloquently with only his eyes.

“I-- Okay. Okay,” Steve says. He sounds stunned. Possibly in shock. “I’m in New York. I’ll be at the tower. Bruce can tell you which one.”

There’s a muffled voice speaking to Steve, then the phone is shuffled around and Natasha’s on the line without introduction.

“Hawkeye, how’s the weather in Peru?” she asks.

“I like it here,” Clint responds automatically. “It’s good to be out of the cold.”

“Confirmed,” she says. And then in a different, more affectionate tone. “Stay safe.”

“You too.”

There’s more shuffling and it’s Steve on the line again. Bruce wonders about the code Natasha and Clint have just sent back and forth, but it doesn't appear to worry James, so Bruce isn't worried either.

“Bruce... keep me updated?” Steve asks. His voice sounds a little more polished. He's trying harder to keep it together now.

“I will,” Bruce says. “We all plan to keep each other alive, for as long as we’re traveling together. Try not to worry.”

Which just gets a sad laugh from Steve. “Yeah.”

“We’ll talk again soon,” Bruce promises, and then he shuts off the call before things get any worse.

Bruce turns his attention to James, who has slumped into the cushions looking drained.

“I need to ask for some medical equipment to get a better look at your knee and Tony’s my best friend... I’d like to tell him who I’m with. I know he has a reputation for... well, being Tony, but if I ask him to give us space, he will. I trust him to keep you quiet. I was fine with him not knowing who I was with before but now that Steve and Natasha know it isn’t just a secret. It’s a _secret_. And Tony’s feelings aren’t hard to hurt when he’s left out.”

“Don’t suppose Tony’s mentioned anything about James to you?” Clint asks, before James can respond. There’s something off in his tone. He's worried. “Cause this is a little more complicated than you know.”

“Tony’s only said that Steve and Natasha were out looking for him and that he wasn’t under HYDRA’s control at this point,” Bruce admits. “If I’ve ask anything else he changes the subject.”

Clint sighs and looks to James, who gives half a shrug as if asking ‘what the hell does this have to do with me?’

“You murdered Tony’s parents,” Clint says. “Brutally murdered.”

“What the fuck?” Bruce choked out.

“It was in that info Nat dumped. JARVIS put it together about 5 weeks ago. James killed Howard and Maria and made it look like a car accident.”

Bruce’s chest tightens. Why hadn’t Tony told him? Why hadn’t Tony trusted him? Why had Tony gone through this alone?

The other guy stirs. 

“Sorry-- give me a minute.” Bruce takes in several deep breaths and then breathes them back out on an 8 count. “Shit. Tony didn’t tell me.”

James’s face is a total blank and he’s staring straight ahead. He’s made Bruce upset and now he’s ready for his punishment, exactly the same as back at the barn.

“James, I’m not angry with you,” Bruce grits out. He’s too focused on keeping Hulk quiet to work on tone of voice. “I’m upset for Tony. And this wasn’t the best way to find out.”

That’s directed to Clint. 

“Sorry, doc. Didn’t want to tell you in private because if we start whispering behind James’s back it’s gonna put him on edge, and if he’s on edge, the chances of me getting stabbed go way up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not great on edge either. And stabbed or smashed-- both bad -- let’s avoid -- you dead.” 

He takes a few more deep breaths and the other guy grudgingly pulls back and away. 

“I remember killing them,” James says, right as Bruce finds a measure of chill.

“Oh god we’re still talking about it,” Bruce groans. 

"Don't remember the details. Just the necessities. S'true."

“You didn’t give those orders to yourself,” Clint points out.

James turns his head to look at Clint. “But I followed them.”

“All our intel says you had no choice,” Clint counters.

“What intel?” James asks.

“Basically? They fucked with your head so much there’s no rhyme or reason to what you’d remember and you definitely weren’t in any shape to be making calls on your own. It makes sense. Torture can break just about anyone so how do you make sure your super soldier doesn’t give up all your secrets? Wipe him after every mission.”

Bruce flinches at the honesty. James’s face is a mask of scary calm.

“That sounds terrible,” Bruce says. “And brutal. And inhumane and immoral and I would need a thesaurus to finish this sentence. But all of that-- it doesn’t change that I still need to look at your knee, James. And to get the equipment I need to talk to Tony, and really, I need to talk to Tony either way.”

James closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Do what you want. I don’t fuckin’ care.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says, worrying the worn hem of his sleeve as he watches James. The man doesn’t look like someone who doesn’t care. He also doesn’t look like someone who’s gotten enough to eat. “Then I’m going to call Tony from the porch. I’ll leave the door open so you can hear my parts of the conversation if you want to listen.”

Bruce has no idea how this conversation’s going to go. How he’s going to tell the best friend he’s ever had that he’s palling around Europe with the guy who’d offed Howard and Maria

Of course Bruce hadn’t had an inkling of that when he’d offered James help, but lack of intent never did anything to soothe Bruce’s guilt.

He gives Clint an ‘I hate this” look then walks out onto the porch alone.

“Shut the door behind you,” James says abruptly.

It’s permission to take the call alone. It could be trust. Or it could be James doesn’t want to hear Bruce talk to the son of his murder victims. Or James doesn’t want Bruce letting in the cold air from outside since he’s on the couch without a shirt. Bruce doesn’t ask for clarification. He needs to get the call over with before Steve gets to Tony first. He sits on the wooden porch floor and leans against the chalet wall and calls his friend.

“How do you like the house?” Tony answers, sounding enthusiastic and entirely unburdened. So Steve hadn’t found him yet thank god. Tony’s cheer is surreal in the moment.

“It’s great,” Bruce says. This awkwardness is the part where he fails at friendship. “Exactly what I needed.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Tony asks. “Why do you sound like someone pissed on your puppy?”

“It’s kicked my puppy and it’s kind of a long story,” Bruce says. “Clint’s here. He brought me up to speed on some things. What happened with your parents, for one.”

“They’re dead,” Tony says. “Old news.”

“With a new twist,” Bruce says. “I’m not upset you didn’t tell me; that’s your business. I wish you had though because I’m worried. And I feel guilty that I wasn’t there for you. Really, guilty. You know me. I overthink things and then when it’s really important to get something right I get it wrong. And who knows-- maybe I’m destined to always make life worse. That’s-- that’s what I’m calling about, actually--”

“You got all that from talking to Barton?” Tony asks. He sounds confused. And rightly so.

“I’m with the Winter Soldier,” Bruce says quietly. “He’s the reason I needed a place to stay. And before Clint explained the situation, I was hoping you could send me some lab equipment to assess him because he’s injured and that seemed like the right thing to do right up until the part where Clint told us he murdered your parents.”

There’s a pause.

“Does Steve know he’s with you?” Tony asks.

“As of a few minutes ago, yes,” Bruce says. “Tony-- I don’t know what to do.”

Bruce hears commotion in the background on Tony’s end. 

“Give me a second,” Tony says. “Gonna put you on mute.”

 

***NEW YORK***

Tony’s elevator opens and Steve and Natasha step out. Natasha is all business. Steve looks like he’s about to be sick. 

“Bruce is on hold,” Tony says, from where he’s standing by the window. “He just told me--”

“Bucky doesn’t want to see me,” Steve says, sounding numb with disbelief. “He wants me to stop looking.”

“Well that’s not new information,” Tony reminds him. “Come on, sit down. Let me finish this call, and then we’ll-- I dunno. Figure out a way to get us all drunk. Or-- something--”

Emotional comfort is not Tony’s specialty.

Steve stays where he is, just outside the elevator and Tony gestures pointedly to his sofa. Natasha gives Steve a nudge on the back to get him moving forward and they both sit down on the couch.

Tony brings his phone back up to his ear.

“Unmute me, J,” Tony says. He waits a moment until he hears Bruce breathing on the other end of the call. “Spangles and SpyGirl are here, but you’re not on speaker. Where were we?”

“The part where I don’t know what to do,” Bruce says, sounding wrecked. “I don’t know what you _want_ me to do.”

Tony did this to Bruce. Made him sound hurt like this. All because he was too much of a coward to tell Bruce the truth and risk the rejection of Bruce choosing not to come to New York even if Tony needed him. And now Tony needed to fix this.

“You should do exactly what you were doing before Hawkeye took a dump on your good deed,” he says.

“This isn’t Clint’s fault,” Bruce insists.

“What’s Legolas doing there anyway?” Tony asks.

“He saw me in Salzburg and he’s been following me ever since. Not to keep me in line, apparently. He was extremely clear that I could have smashed whole villages and he’d have been cheering me on from the sidelines. I guess in his mind we were traveling together.”

“Well, of that much I approve,” Tony says. “Tell him I forgive him for tattling.”

There’s silence for a few seconds before Bruce speaks. “Do you want me to come home?”

 _Home._ Tony is ready to grasp at anything that will make Bruce stop sounding so fucking sad and this one word gives him his ammo.

“Home?” Tony asks. “I kind of love that. No. I don’t kind of love it, I really love it. I’m going to have someone cross stitch it onto a pillow for you.”

“Just the word ‘home’?” Bruce asks.

“You’re right. Not my best plan. What about we fire up a laser when you get back and burn it onto the moon instead?”

Which makes Bruce laugh. Tony warms with relief. 

“I feel like we’re jumping to extremes,” Bruce hedges. “Christ, I miss you.”

“Stop,” Tony half laughs, half whines. “When you’re back-- then you can corner me into a heart to heart. Just-- stay where you are for now. Tell me what to send for Barnes. I’ll make it happen.”

“You don’t have to send anything. I’m sure Clint could _borrow_ what I need, or we could break into a medical center after hours. It’s not fair involving you any further.”

“I’m already up to my eyeballs in this, Banner, and I’m offering my help. Email JARVIS what it’ll take to scan Barnes’ injuries. Try and get some scans of his arm while you’re at it. Robocop might have trackers in there or a kill switch.”

Steve looks up in alarm. “A kill switch?”

“Gimme a minute, Steve,” Tony says.

“I’ll ask,” Bruce says. “I won’t do a medical procedure without his permission. That includes scans.”

“Then use those big brown eyes of yours,” Tony suggests. “Bat your eyelashes. Give him puppy dog looks. I’m serious about kill switches. We’ve got some medical history on him now and there’s nothing I’d put past those assholes.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bruce says. There’s another pause. “You’re really okay?”

“That’s debatable and irrelevant,” Tony assures him.

“Is there anything I can do from here?”

“Keep me in the loop. Keep both eyes on Barnes. Dick pics are optional but always appreciated.”

Bruce laughs on the other end of the line. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You know it.”

Tony ends the call. 

“So this sucks,” Tony announces. “In case anyone was curious.”

“Could be worse,” Natasha says. “Barnes is safe for now. That’s more than we could say this morning.”

Steve nods robotically. “You’re right. He’s safe. That’s what’s important.” Every word sounds forced and false.

“Natasha, think you could give us a minute?” Tony asks.

“I’ll do you one better and give you the whole night. If we aren’t heading out any time soon I’ve got some business of my own to take care of,” Natasha says. “You good here, Steve?”

“I’ll be fine,” Steve confirms. Another lie. At this rate Pinocchio’s nose is going to be in New Jersey by morning.

Natasha stands up from the couch and leans down to place a kiss on the top of Steve’s head.

“Bogotá,” she whispers into his ear, and then she walks away. The elevator doors open for her automatically, then close behind her as Tony takes the seat she vacated on the couch.

“What was that about Bogotá?” Tony asks, tucking his feet up under him.

“Nothing,” Steve says. “Or something, I guess. It’s a code she and Barton use. She didn’t tell me what it means.”

“That’s not a code,” Tony says. “It was in the security files she dumped on the net. Bogotá, Columbia. It’s where Hawkeye found her when he convinced her to let him bring her in. Broke every policy and procedure in the handbook to do it.”

“Nearly got himself killed?” Steve asks.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Tony says. “But if Barton could do it for her--”

“Then he could do it for Bucky?”

“Sounds reasonable. And he’s not alone,” Tony reminds him. “Bruce is there, so the HYDRA concern goes down a couple hundred notches. No one’s getting past the Hulk.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “That’s-- that’s really not so bad.”

“I’m not saying it’s great,” Tony adds.

“But it’s a start,” Steve agrees. “You want to-- I don’t know. Watch some TV or eat or something? If you’re not busy. If you’re busy, it’s fine-- I can make myself scarce.”

Tony gets it, he does. Steve doesn’t want to be alone. For that matter, neither does Tony. He’s got a lot on his mind and if he lets his brain do its own thing, that’s just asking for a panic attack or nightmares or insomnia. This is better. Company is good. They both deserve a break. And Tony’s not sure when’s the last time he’s eaten anything that’s not yellow and shaped like a sponge.

“JARVIS, put on Dog Cops and order us some pizza, will you?” Tony asks.

“Yes, sir.” Tony knows better than to personify JARVIS too much and still he can’t help but think his AI sounds relieved.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Is this a show about cops who _have_ dogs, or cops who _are_ dogs?”

“This is one of those things you've got to see for yourself.”


	5. Spy Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Steve bond over the future while Bruce, Clint and James try really hard not to set anyone off. Which for Clint involves running around in a towel for ~reasons~.

***NEW YORK***

In the forties, Steve had been promised a future without hunger. Without war. A city on the moon. Flying cars.

And what had the future given him? Dog Cops.

“So what’d you think?” Tony asks when it’s over.

“It was great,” Steve says slowly. “I mean. Except for the dialogue. And the plot. And the 42 minutes of my life I’m never getting back.”

For a split second Tony’s mouth drops open aghast and then he retaliates for the snark by tossing one of the throw pillows at Steve.

“You’re such a shit,” Tony complains. “I was actually feeling bad for you when I invited you to hang out. Then you come and sit on _my_ couch and insult my favorite show? Sergeant Whiskers is a national treasure.”

“So am I and you just called me a shit,” Steve points out.

“National treasure, my ass,” Tony grumbles. “There’s no way whoever dubbed you that had ever met you. Come on. Tell me I’m right.”

Steve smiles at a memory. The time Bucky’d torn out an article about Captain America from a newspaper and then read it out loud to the whole pub later that night, with a ton of colorful commentary inserted in between the facts. Just rant after rant about Steve throwin’ himself on grenades and jumping without parachutes and generally being a dopey, shit-for-brains menace. When Bucky’d really got going, the Howling Commandos had never laughed so hard. Morita had fallen out of his chair. Dum Dum had nearly pissed his pants. 

Steve’s happiness lasts for all of about three seconds when reality socks him in the stomach. As happy as the memory was, it’s tainted now. There’s no one else who remembers. They’re all dead. And Bucky might be something even worse.

“Ugh, nooooooo,” Tony groans. “Whatever I said that made that face happen, I take it back. I surrender. I will buy you a pony. Just stop looking so woebegone. I’m begging you.”

Steve tries to school his features into something less miserable. “Sorry. Just... what you said about me not being a national treasure. You reminded me of Bucky, is all. He never got tired of taking me down a peg or two. I think it was his way of helping me feel normal. Keeping my ego in check whenever he thought I was acting a little too invincible...”

Steve realizes too late that being compared to Bucky is probably the last thing Tony wants.

“You don’t have to stop. You can talk about him,” Tony says with a shrug. “I’m not going to stay up all night crying over it.”

“I don’t want to force him on you,” Steve says. “What he did--”

“He did because of HYDRA,” Tony cuts him off. “I’ve had six weeks to stew, Steve. Six weeks to hate him, and pity him, and everything in between. I’m not saying I’m over it, but I’m definitely at a spot where he doesn’t need to be the elephant in the room anymore. That wasn’t doing me much good anyway. So... what’s he like? What’s he going to be like when I meet him? If he’s you know... him... and not all murdery.”

Steve takes in Tony’s words. He doesn’t miss what a turnaround like this will cost Tony in the long run. Justice. Vengeance. Retribution. All things that by all rights Tony might feel he deserves. 

So if Tony opens his home to Bucky, or acts with the rest of the Avengers to keep Bucky safe-- that’s not without sacrifice.

_I can’t hurt him, without hurting you._

That’s what Tony had said up on the roof. Steve had believed him when he said it, but seeing this kind of sacrificial forgiveness in action is to see a kind of heroism that somehow outshines flying a nuke into space. And that was really something.

Steve swallows hard.

“He was charming,” he begins hesitantly. “Lively. A chatterbox is what my ma used to call him. And he was good. Just a good person. He had this way of looking at the world-- like he didn’t see it for what it was, but like he could see it for what it was going to be. Like he could see _me_ for what I was going to be.”

“Sounds like a smart guy.”

“He was. About people and about other things too. He was really interested in science. Always dragged me to every Future-Fair and Science Expo that came to New York. If he was here now-- the old Bucky I mean-- I bet you’d never pry him out of your lab. He’d want to know how everything works and how it all fits together.”

“So kind of like the opposite of you,” Tony teases.

There was a time when a comment like that would have gotten Steve’s hackles up because it had taken him a long time to understand that the only way to take Tony was with several hundred grains of salt. It wasn’t criticism. It wasn’t mean. It was an out. A way to lighten the mood or move the conversation along, if Steve wants. It seems like a good idea. The ache in his chest is gone and the sting of loss is manageable. For the first time in a month and a half, Steve doesn’t feel like he’s completely lost in a dark haze of grief.

“Find us something else to watch on TV,” Steve says. “Something good this time.”

Tony considers it.

“Have you seen Star Trek yet?” Tony asks. “Specifically the Next Generation?”

“I’ve heard of it, but no-- I haven’t watched it. That’s the one without the lightsabers, right?”

Steve can’t tell from the pained expression on Tony’s face whether he’s gotten that right or wrong.

“JARVIS, queue up Encounter at Farpoint,” Tony says instead, before turning to face Steve with a serious expression. “I will give you that Dog Cops is not for everyone, but if you don’t like Star Trek, all hope is lost.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says.

Tony stands up as the television switches to a view of space.

“You want a beer?” Tony asks.

“Can’t get drunk,” Steve reminds him.

“It’s not always about getting drunk,” Tony says. “I just thought-- nevermind.”

“No,” Steve insists. “What did you think?”

“Just thought you could use some normalcy. TV. Beer. It’s what me and Rhodey do. Guess that wasn’t a thing back when you hung out with friends.”

“I--” Steve cuts himself off before he blurts out _I don’t have any friends_ because one, that’s not true, and two because it’s maybe a little true. Sam’s only been around for seven weeks and Steve’s nearly gotten him killed a dozen times so he wouldn’t blame Sam if he walked. Nat can be hard to read. The Strike team was _HYDRA._ It’s too painful to consider whether Bucky counts. “I haven’t spent a lot of non-work time with people recently. Not casual hanging out. And before the war I couldn’t afford to drink and televisions existed but I didn’t know anyone who had one. So yes, not really a thing. I’d like to, though. Have a beer. If you’re offering.”

Tony stares at him with a look that lands somewhere between amused and understanding.

“So you can ramble. Good to know,” Tony says. “Glad it’s not just me. Beer and normalcy, coming right up.”

They drink and they watch Star Trek and Steve is transfixed. Tony makes a lot of jibes about the special effects and the fashion and the genius kid (who Steve suspects hits a little too close to home), but Steve can feel how much it means to Tony that he does enjoy the show. He enjoys it a lot.

He likes it so much that they watch five episodes straight and the sixth is about to begin before Steve looks over and realizes Tony’s fallen asleep.

“JARVIS, I think that’s enough for tonight,” Steve whispers.

The TV shuts off and the room darkens considerably. A lamp near the elevator begins to glow. In the soft light, Tony looks different. Less burdened. Softer around the edges. And he also looks like he’s going to wake up with sore shoulders and a crick in his neck. 

Steve could carry him easily, but he’s never been in Tony’s room and it’s probably rude to scoop someone up in your arms and put them to bed after they’re past the age of ten. At least without some kind of prior consent.

So he settles for carefully lifting Tony up to reposition him to lay flat on the couch, and then wedges a throw pillow under his head. 

There’s a fancy looking blanket resting on a chair nearby but it looks like it was woven out of some kind of endangered animal and when Steve picks it up, it’s more prickly than soft.

“If you are looking for a blanket, Captain Rogers, I can direct you,” JARVIS says at low volume.

Lights flash along the wall and Steve follows them deeper into the penthouse until he finds a hall closet that exists for the sole purpose of storing pillows and bedding. There are a dozen blankets stashed there and Steve runs his hand over several of them until he finds an old quilt that’s well-worn and perfectly soft. He pulls it out from under the others and carries it back to the living room.

Tony’s still asleep and he doesn’t stir as Steve tucks the blanket in around him. He’s totally dead to the world. It makes Steve wonder just how long it’s been since Tony slept. A while, probably.

He gathers up their beer bottles, figuring he’ll recycle them downstairs. That’s really all that needs done to clean up, but Steve finds himself still standing in the penthouse a few minutes later, watching the rise and fall of Tony’s chest.

It’s calming. Peaceful. It makes Steve realize how much he could use some sleep, too. He just needs to recycle first, take a quick shower, and then hope like hell he can pass out on his pillow before the guilt of the day catches up with him.

Easy.

 

***SWITZERLAND***

“Out of the bath,” James calls from his place on the couch, as Bruce steps in the door after his phone call with Tony. When James sees Bruce, he gestures back toward the bathroom. “Barton is practicing his stealth.”

Something small takes a tumble in that direction, like deodorant or toothpaste hitting the bathroom floor.

“Damn it!” Clint shouts.

“Spy games?” Bruce guesses.

“His idea,” James says.

“I assumed so,” Bruce says fondly. 

If James isn’t going to ask him about the call with Tony, Bruce isn’t going to force the information on him. Not with all the layers of guilt that lay in between. 

“I know it’s ridiculously late,” Bruce continues, “but I’m thinking of making a stir fry since there’s food here and I haven’t had the luxury of a kitchen in a while. I can make a side of rice in broth, if you want to give it a try? When I was living in India, that would be the first food I’d introduce to anyone recovering from stomach issues.”

James doesn’t respond, and at first Bruce thinks it’s because he’s still listening for Clint, but there’s a tenseness in his features that suggests otherwise. Something about his expression clicks with Bruce: Any resistance at all to suggestion was beaten out of James a long time ago.

“Or you can just have as many StarkBars as I’ve got left?” Bruce asks. “Whatever you want. You know your body better than I do.”

James glares at Bruce like he’s just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. James was clearly telling the truth when he said a lot of things seems stupid to him now.

“StarkBar,” James says.

Bruce rummages in his bag, then tosses one of the bars to James. They are down to less than a dozen so the food issues can’t wait forever, but they can definitely wait until tomorrow. For now, Bruce moves on to pulling vegetables out of the fridge to make the stir-fry for himself and Clint.

“Maybe no one ever asked you about your pain,” Bruce says. “Or asked about your body apart from malfunctions. Other people's disregard for your comfort doesn’t invalidate that your body is your own.”

James looks like he’s about to respond, then tilts his head slightly to the right. Listening.

“You didn’t get into the bath that time,” James interrupts, saying it loud enough that Clint will hear from the back of the house if he’s listening.

Bruce smiles at the image of Clint trying to sneak in and out of the bathtub to show up the famous Winter Soldier. It's also nice that the game is engaging James, and that seems promising. 

“We can talk about this some other time, if you want. I’ll leave you and Clint to your fun.”

“I don’t have fun,” James tosses back, as if the very insinuation is insulting. “I don’t have-- any of this. This is a malfunction. More malfunctions. A long list of fuckin’ malfunctions.”

James’s metal fist clenches into a ball so tight Bruce hears a slight grinding sound. He knows  
there is a fine line between pushing and giving James the support he needs to express himself so Bruce stays quiet for a moment. The best he can do is watch James’s face and look for cues, and when James’s frustration appears to fade slightly and he looks more tired than anything else, Bruce decides to try a different approach.

“Can you explain the malfunction to me?” he asks.

“I feel,” James sighs. “I feel...”

His words die off, and Bruce can see that James doesn’t have the vocabulary for whatever it is he wants to express next. James looks at him expectantly, as if Bruce can read minds, and Bruce chews on his bottom lip in thought. He doesn’t want to feed James emotions. If he gets them wrong, James could misidentify them for who knows how long, and Bruce really does not want to be responsible for fucking James up any worse than he is. So instead of giving any definites, he ventures a quiet guess.

“Is feeling the malfunction?” Bruce asks.

And it’s the right answer because James lets out a sharp breath and nods.

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “I met Steve Rogers and then I malfunctioned.”

“If you process what’s happening as a malfunction, that’s totally valid,” Bruce says. “You would know better than I would what your malfunctions feel like. But do you think I could offer an alternate explanation for you to consider?”

James considers it, then shrugs indifferently. “No one's stopping you.”

Bruce starts to open his mouth but James interrupts him by declaring “You’re back in the bath, Barton!”

There is silence from the bathroom, and then the front door flies open and Clint’s standing there in nothing but a towel and a triumphant grin.

“Who’s got stealth mode now, bitches?” he demands.

Bruce shakes his head and laughs as James gave Clint a slight, acknowledging tilt of his head. 

The childlike way Clint’s face lights up at James’s approval is frankly adorable. Bruce has the good grace not to point it out. Rather than go get dressed, Clint sits down on one of the bar stools, in a way that will give Bruce an eyeful if he doesn’t keep his face turned toward James.

“That smells good,” Clint says, nodding toward the pain. “What’d I miss?”

It actually takes Bruce a moment to remember what they’d been talking about before the spy games interrupted. He starts cutting up some chicken and adding it into the stir fry as he talks.

“I was just about to tell James my thoughts on one of his malfunctions,” Bruce says. “And honestly, your perspective might be helpful. I... um... I’m not an expert on this. On any of it.”

Bruce feels helpless now that it's time to talk this out on his own. Tony is always so helpful during brainstorming and explaining technical things to the team. He intuitively knows when Bruce needs him to toss in a word or two to help fill in the verbal blanks. Still, James is looking at him with mild interest, so Bruce shoves down his own inadequacies and insecurities and continues.

“Most humans are born with a capacity for emotions and feelings. There are definitely exceptions, but typically, a child is born and that child has emotions keyed in and ready to go,” Bruce begins. “That’s the... the typical state... of neurocircuitry. Umm.. the control mechanism that regulates thoughts.”

Bruce wishes he had a whiteboard, or Tony’s holoboard, or even post-it notes and a pen. This would be so much easier if he had something to do with his hands other than wave them around like a lunatic.

“When you were captured and...” Bruce fumbles for a word. “And programmed, they could have altered your brain. They could have done something that caused a malfunction that-- that robbed you of your ability to be you. And seeing Steve could have been a trigger that shifted part of your natural state back into place. So in that scenario, what’s going on-- it might not be a new malfunction so much as a _return_ to function. To your natural function. Maybe.”

“He’s going back to his factory settings,” Clint says. “If by factory we mean his mom’s vag.”

Bruce laughs at the ridiculousness of that statement, particularly because he knows that Clint knows a hell of a lot more about human anatomy than he lets on.

“That-- that makes me think you and I need to have a separate talk about where babies comes from,” Bruce says. “But that’s the concept, yeah. What do you think, James? Does that feel valid to you at all? Because I could be full of shit. That’s fine, too.”

“I think you’re full of shit,” James agrees. “But go on if there’s more.”

“There’s a little more,” Bruce says. He isn’t insulted at all by James’s shut down. If anything, Bruce feels better knowing that James is willing to listen to new information and sort it out for himself. “The entirety of what the scientific community knows to be absolutely certain about how the human brain stores and retrieves memories would fill about half a pamphlet. When scientists publish papers they’re guessing. Like you just said, most of it is bullshit,” Bruce admits. “But one thing pretty much everyone can agree on is that brains are resilient. And no matter what’s been done to you... no matter how much of your humanity was stripped away, I think that who you are at your fundamental core-- the version of you from the beginning-- I think that would be really damn hard to destroy.”

James becomes very interested in the half a StarkBar he has left so it’s Clint who speaks.

“That’s a nice thought, doc,” Clint says quietly. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Bruce confirms. “I absolutely do. James, when you defied your orders, maybe it was a malfunction or maybe it was the fundamental _you_ of you, taking back control. Either way, you get to choose what these malfunctions mean to you, and Clint and I will help you go from there.”

James is still staring at the food in his hand with a spooky sort of intensity. 

“You think that was Bucky Barnes?” James asks. He doesn’t sound as offended by the name, now. It's more like he’s talking about an old acquaintance than an old enemy.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says. “I never met him. I can tell you everything you want to know about what Steve Rogers is like, but Steve’s the only person who’s going to be able to give you his thoughts on Bucky.”

“He...” James starts. “The way he looked at me... I am not that person. I’m not who he thinks I am. I’m an asset. A weapon. Not Bucky Barnes.”

Bruce can practically hear the loop of all that playing in James’s head.

“That sounds lonely,” Bruce says.

“I’ve been an asset and a weapon,” Clint adds. “It sucks.”

They leave the conversation there. Clint because he ventures back into one of the bedrooms to put on some actual clothes, and Bruce because he’s worried any more talk could be construed as an outright push and that’s cruel to do to James. He focuses on finishing his cooking, then plating up food for him and Clint. He grabs two more beers from the fridge as Clint returns to join them. They eat in silence. Bruce is almost to his last bite when James speaks up.

“Tell me about Steve Rogers,” he says. 

James speaks in the disinterested tone of someone who is worried that showing too much interest in any given thing is sure to mean it will be taken away. Bruce has been there. He gets it.

Clint speaks first. “He relies a lot on his instincts and he’s not afraid of breaking rules if it’s going to help somebody. He can’t be bullied and he won’t stand for anyone else being bullied either, even if that might put him in the wrong. He’d be the first person in any group to throw himself on a grenade to save everyone else, so I’m honestly not sure how he’s still alive. Especially considering the company he keeps.”

“Fortune favors the brave,” Bruce comments quietly.

“Or at least here’s hoping,” Clint laughs, raising his bottle in a toast.

Bruce lifts his too and they clink them together.

James watches them with skepticism. “Sounds familiar. Tell me he didn’t make that up himself.”

“No, not him,” Bruce says. “It’s old. Older than either of you. From Roman times.”

“Well don’t let him hear you say it,” James says. “He doesn’t need help gettin’ into trouble.”

Honestly, James sounds so protective of Steve both Clint and Bruce try to hide their smiles. It doesn’t work and James looks unimpressed, which only makes Clint laugh.

“Sorry-- sorry,” Clint apologizes. “I should not be laughing at someone with your estimated kill count. It’s just you sound like pretty much every other person ever who’s been out on a mission with Steve.”

“He’s always been like that. There was this one time he--” James stops so suddenly he chokes on the word.

Whatever he was about to say might be a memory. It might also be something less tangible. Whatever it was it obviously scares the bejezus out of him.

His whole body freezes and his expression goes from annoyed to panicked in an instant. He shuts his eyes hard. Bruce stares in worried fascination as James’s face smooths into something cold and impassive. 

“It’s okay,” Bruce says quietly. “It helps to breathe.”

“It’s not a malfunction,” James says slowly and insistently, as if Clint and Bruce need convincing. When he opens his eyes his focus is fixed beyond the room like he’s staring right through Bruce and Clint at unseen captors and vicious men. “I have the mission report.”

James’s breath evens out in a forced way that Bruce guesses is from 70 years of learning how to shut down panic attacks before anyone notices. His body is rigid and tense and his eyes slide to Clint. There’s fury there along with the fear. Clint seems incredibly fragile sitting close to James the way he is. Breakable. Easy to kill. The Other Guy is not a fan.

“Stand down, soldier,” Clint orders. “You’re fully functional. We don’t need a mission report.” That doesn’t do anything to erase the murder eyes James is giving him and Clint tries again. “You’re field ready. At ease.”

Clint repeats his words in German then in Russian, or at least that’s what Bruce thinks he’s catching from his limited knowledge of the languages. That seems to get James’s attention even if Bruce can still see the way James’s pulse is throbbing in his throat.

“I don’t need the chair. It was not a malfunction,” James states softly. As if he knows his opinion won’t matter, but he can’t help but try. “I don’t need the chair.” His voice wobbles over the words.

The Other Guy feels the threat lessen and control is easier to wrestle back.

“You don’t need the chair,” Bruce agrees as he starts to ease his fingers from his vice grip on the kitchen table. Hulk shape disaster averted for now. 

“We don’t even have a chair like the kind you mean,” Clint says. “That’s a chair that assholes use and we aren’t assholes. Most of the time. And never like that. We aren’t here to hurt you.”

James lowers his face. He ends up putting both hands on the cushion he’s sitting on and bracing himself there.

“Maybe try a drink of water?” Bruce directs to Clint. He’s definitely not going to trust his own legs to stand and move just yet.

Clint nods, pushes back from the table and walks into the kitchen slowly and deliberately. James isn’t looking but Clint is telegraphing every movement and making a good bit more noise than necessary.

When he walks over to James, his steps are heavy, and there’s no stealth. Clint is a solid, grounding presence. Bruce had never noticed before that Clint could do that. Could be so there.

Unhurriedly, Clint reaches out the glass to James. James takes it and drinks a few sips. Clint crouches down, so that even though James is looking toward the floor, he can see him in his view.

“We all have those moments,” Clint says. “Don’t feel like you’ve got to run off just cause we’ve seen one.”

“M’not running,” James says.

“Good,” Clint says as he stands. “Cause now you at least need to stick around long enough to see one of mine so we can be even.”

James nods.

“And look. I know you’ve got no reason to believe me,” Clint adds, as he sits back down at the table, “But I am giving you my word-- no one’s putting you back in that chair. I would kill to keep you out of that chair. Hell, I would _die_ to keep you out of it. And once things are a little more settled and it’s time to go on the offensive, me and you can hunt down that chair and turn it into goddamn splinters if that’s the kind of thing that strikes you as a good time.”

“Yeah,” James says, finally sounding more like himself. “I’d like that.”

Clint lets out a slow breath and picks up his fork. “You and me both.”

Bruce is right there with them.


	6. The Quilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony thinks about the past, while Bruce, Clint and James work out the science of the future.

***NEW YORK***

It’s been weeks (months? years?) since Tony woke up feeling so rested. Which is odd, since when he blinks open his eyes he’s on the couch.

“JARVIS?”

“It’s 7:42 in the morning, sir. The weather today will be sunny, with a chance of rain in the late afternoon. The high is expected--”

“S’good,” Tony says. “Where’s Steve?”

“Still out for his morning run.”

Tony sits up. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember moving down the couch to get more comfortable. He looks down at the warm fluff surrounding him and he _knows_ he didn’t cover himself with this quilt.

“JARVIS-- play me the video feed from last night. Whatever happened after I fell asleep.”

Tony runs his fingers over the soft, worn fabric and feels a tightness in his chest.

The television turns on and Tony watches as Steve dims the lights then watches Tony sleep. It’s probably overly intrusive to view the feed, but... well, he’s not known for his restraint in these things and there’s only JARVIS here to judge him. And let’s be real: this is waaaay low on the list of weird things JARVIS has seen.

On screen, Steve stands and gently picks Tony up to shift him down the couch. He grabs the pillow. Goes for the terrible, itchy, blanket (that one of the designers had picked out and Tony hadn’t gotten around to throwing away yet) and stops himself. JARVIS offers to lead Steve to better blankets.

So that’s it then. Tony tries to ignore his overwhelming disappointment.

See, the blanket wrapped around him isn’t just any blanket. It’s the blanket Ana Jarvis had made for him when he was five years old, to keep Tony from sneaking into her and Mr. Jarvis’s room to steal the quilt off their bed. It was warm, and soft and it smelled like Ana’s perfume. 

He’d been skeptical when she’d presented him with a quilt of his own, but she’d gotten down on her knees and looked him in the eyes and explained that when she was five her mother had made her the quilt that now lay on her bed. That it was the only thing she had left from her family and that she really wanted to keep it safe in her room.

Tony had felt terrible then, and tears had welled up in his eyes. She pulled him close and wrapped his new quilt around him.

“I know it’s not as soft as mine yet, but sleep under it every night, and play on it every day and remember I made it with all my love. Just for you.”

Tony’s eyes sting at the edges.

He’d loved this quilt. He’d taken it with him when he’d gone to MIT. The night his parents had died he’d cocooned himself in it and shut out the world. He’d stayed with Rhodey’s family for a few weeks after that, and when he’d left the Rhodes home to move back into his parents’ empty house he’d left the blanket behind.

What had once been his best comfort only reminded him of just how lonely his world had become. Tony hadn’t seen the quilt again until after Afghanistan. It had come back to him in a box, from Rhodey’s mom, sent along with a tupperware bowl full of her chocolate chip cookies and a note that read _Send back when you are done and I will always return to you when needed._

Tony knew she meant the Tupperware bowl (Rhodey had warned him long ago his mother took Tupperware seriously) but a few weeks later he had packaged up the bowl and the quilt together and had them sent back to Mrs. Rhodes.

Over the years the quilt (and a bowl of fresh cookies) had come back to Tony a few times when Mrs. Rhodes suspected he needed them and when Rhodey’s mom passed away the year before, the quilt came back to him permanently, without the bowl or cookies.

He’d put it away in the closet and tried to forget.

Tony was about to tell JARVIS to end the feed when the video continued to follow Steve down the hall. And well-- honestly Tony only continued watching because it was mostly a view of Steve from behind and that was the kind of quality television that deserved an Oscar.

Steve got to the closet, and with no prompting whatsoever from JARVIS, smoothed his hands over the blankets and chose Ana’s quilt.

He hadn't known. He’d just... gotten it right all on his own.

“JARVIS, ask Steve to pick me up coffee and a bagel when he heads back toward the tower.”

“He’s only a few blocks away. Requesting now,” JARVIS says.

There’s a several second pause.

“He has agreed. You’ll see him shortly,” JARVIS supplies.

“Thanks, J.”

“You’re very welcome. I live to serve.”

 

***SWITZERLAND***

It takes Bruce a while to get to sleep. He’s so worried James will have nightmares, he can’t stop trying to listen for them. Eventually Bruce drifts off and when he wakes up it’s dawn. As far as he knows, James slept noiselessly. Unless he didn’t sleep at all. Or he’s gone. Or he’s dead. Or gone and he murdered Clint in the process. Or they killed each other and their bodies are out glistening with dew in the morning sun. _Shit._

Bruce sits up with a start. He doesn't go peek in at James no matter how tempting it is. He’d told James they don’t intend to trap him here and allowing him space is the easiest way to prove that. Bruce heads for the bathroom instead. He hadn’t bothered washing up the night before and he really should have. He’s disgusting.

Bruce runs his shower warm, and then stands with his face turned up to the stream and stays there until he has to shift away to catch his breath, and then he grabs the soap. It’s the first proper shower he’s had in a month and a half. He’s so filthy that the swirls of dirt that wash down the drain leaves trails that look like modern art. Bruce can make out a storm cloud. An ugly monkey. A wheat field in Kansas.

Despite the warm water, Bruce’s muscles are still tense. He’s not going to relax until he knows everyone’s okay.

He towels off, dresses, then walks out of the bathroom to greet a quiet house. The feeling of unease in his chest only intensifies as he turns on the coffee maker and starts making pancakes alone.

Three minutes later it’s a huge relief when Clint strolls in from outside, alive and well.

“Where’s Sleeping Beauty?” Clint asks.

“Sleeping, I hope. Still in his room,” Bruce says. “Unless he left.”

“He didn’t leave,” Clint assures him. “Well, okay, he’s stealthy as fuck, so yeah, maybe he left. But not in any way I could tell.”

“Should I knock?” Bruce asks. “Just to make sure he isn’t...”

Bruce makes a death gesture that even he doesn’t understand. Sort of opossum-like, with his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his head tipping to the side. Clint laughs.

“I’m sure he’s fine. What’s that quote about letting sleeping bears lie?” Clint asks.

“Point taken, though I always heard it as sleeping dogs,” Bruce says. “I guess bears makes more sense, now that I think about it. Either way, you’re right.”

“Circus wisdom,” Clint explains. “We had a bear that rode a little tricycle. Mean as shit. I hated that thing.”

The bedroom door opens before Bruce can reply and James steps out in pajama bottoms. He's frowning and he's got a serious case of bedhead. It makes him look a lot less intimidating.

“I’m the bear in this story?” he asks. He doesn’t sound angry... maybe a little offended?

“I can’t picture you on a trike, but yeah--,” Clint says. “I think it’s a pretty safe bet that waking you up before you’re ready would be hazardous to my health.”

“Plus Bucky Bears were a thing,” Bruce adds. His voice is about a hundred times less burdened now that he sees James in the flesh. Especially since James looks like he’s made about a week’s worth of recovery in the 8 hours he slept. “You might have seen them actually, if you were doing research.”

James makes a face at Bucky’s name and Bruce flinches at his own stupidity.

“Shit,” Bruce apologizes quickly. “I’m sorry James. I know you aren’t Bucky and I didn’t mean to imply that you are.”

“I’m not gonna cry cause you say his name,” James cuts him off in a drawl, before limping over to the couch and plopping himself down.

“I don’t think you are. It’s just important to me to identify you in the way you want to be identified. I still-- I don’t really say the Other Guy’s name when I don’t have to. My friends all say it and it’s not like I can blame them; they’ve got to call him something. I just don’t like to own it.”

James manages a look that could pass for sympathetic before reaching for one of the last few StarkBars.

“I’m glad you like those,” Bruce says, glad for a reason to change the subject. “I can’t say for sure, but you look like you’ve healed up more than a typical person would expect overnight. You might have stayed injured as long as you did because your body didn’t have anything in it to use for repairs.”

“You think?” James asks, lifting an eyebrow.

It’s so perfectly sarcastic, the last of Bruce’s morning stress dissolves.

“I like you, James,” Clint says, giving him a nod. “Too many people are afraid to sass Bruce.”

“Really?” Bruce asks Clint with a smile. “Because the last time I checked it feels like there are plenty of you. Tony’s got to count for 10, minimum.”

“We could always use more,” Clint says. “When are we having breakfast?”

“Just a couple of minutes, if you can wait?”

“For pancakes, sure,” Clint says, as he joins Bruce in the kitchen. “But coffee I need now. Oh-- there’s a couple packages outside on the porch for you. Didn’t pick them up cause they’re all in some weird case that’s gonna need your fingerprints to open. A couple drones dropped them off about an hour before it got light. I wasn’t too worried since it was obviously Stark.”

“It’s probably the scanner. Flip this one when the bubbles start to set,” Bruce says, handing Clint the spatula and nodding toward the pancake.

Bruce sees James tense from the corner of his eye and adds “We’re not going to use the scanner until you’re ready, James. And before that happens we’ll do a scan on me first so you can see how it works. If you don’t like the looks of it we’ll figure something else out.”

Bruce won’t force this.

He gives James time to consider his words as he walks out to the porch. The three boxes the drone left behind aren’t too big but it’s more than Bruce was expecting. He picks them up one at a time and carries them inside, to deposit them on the table.

He opens the first by laying his hand against a blue lit square, a security measure Tony occasionally uses in the lab. 

The blue square turns green and a panel slides away allowing Bruce to reach inside. The first box contains a variety of tech manuals, schematics, and other papers Tony wants Bruce to read. The second box contains three brown-paper wrapped boxes labeled BannerBars. The third is full of bubble wrap and packaging peanuts and must be the scanner.

“I’ll unwrap all that,” Clint says. “You start back with the pancakes. I think I’m burning them.”

Bruce nods and switches places with Clint. Clint goes for the BannerBars (which Bruce is positive he’d named StarkBars) first.

“What the hell are these?” Clint asks, after unwrapping the first set of bars from their brown paper. “I watched you eat about a thousand of the silver ones.”

Clint tosses Bruce what he’s holding in his hand. 

It’s definitely a StarkBar though the packaging has changed. The ones that Bruce had carried with him were prototypes and wrapped in silver, quick seal foil. These are... flashy. Specifically, they are covered in pictures of Bruce and Tony, making ridiculous faces and printed with BANNERBAR in bright purple along the side. The pictures must have been taken from different security feeds in the lab. No doubt JARVIS had special orders to save any images that involved them looking like idiots.

It’s nice though. Nice that it’s his own face and not the Other Guy. Nice that Tony’s renamed them for him. Nice to have a friend.

“Hopefully these are an end to world hunger,” Bruce says. “But if that doesn’t work out, they’re something James can eat without feeling sick. You can try one, if you want.”

Bruce tosses the bar back and Clint unwraps it and takes a big bite. 

“Not bad. You want the rest?” he directs toward James.

James nods and stands to walk over and grab it. He also seems to use it as an excuse to come eye their new gifts more closely.

Clint begins pulling the parts out for the scanner next and James watches him like Clint is unwrapping a bomb. Maybe something worse than a bomb, since Bruce has gotten the distinct impression that James wouldn’t be all that disconcerted by an actual weapon.

“James, you can feel free to check over the scanner parts if you want to see what they look like or smash them with a hammer if you really don’t them in the house. I won’t be mad. I'm not going to _make_ you do this. I mean that.”

“Don’t need a hammer,” James says, stretching out his metal arm. “Won’t Stark be upset?”

It's Clint who answers. “The only thing Tony likes more than making things is seeing what they look like once they’ve gotten the shit beat out of them,” Clint assures him. “I swear he’s like a kid in a candy store every time I bring him back a jacked-up arrow.”

Bruce nods, even if he’s not entirely sure Clint’s assessment is accurate. It’s valid to Clint, and James seems to feel comforted, so Bruce isn’t going to provide further clarification.

Clint moves out of the way so James can take over with the scanner unpacking then nabs a pancake off the plate where Bruce is loading them up. He rolls it into a cigar shape and shoves it in his mouth.

“S’good,” Clint says, before swallowing. He washes the pancake down with a few drinks of coffee.

James moves deliberately around the table. He pulls out three small pieces of tech from the third box and places them off to the side. He picks up the instructions and takes a few steps back to read them. He keeps an eye on the room like he expects something to jump up and attack him.

Bruce turns off the stove and carries the plate of pancakes over to the table. Clint’s method of breakfast eating seems kind of genius, so he picks one up and rolls it like a rug. Eating the pancake by hand makes it easier to inspect the new technology.

There’s a small, silver square about the size of a cell phone sitting out and next to it is a baton, about 12 inches long. The last piece is a satellite component that will link it all to JARVIS. Bruce has seen similar before.

“The little one’s the scanner and the long thing is gonna put up a hologram,” James explains, looking up from the paper. “The one in the middle is a transmitter.”

It’s a good sign James is owning some of this. Bruce nods and wipes his hand on his pajama pants before he reaches for the baton. He knows that scrubbing up before touching the equipment is better lab etiquette but it will only make the scanner seem that much more official. Better to act like it’s not a big deal.

“If you and James understand this stuff, maybe you should practice scanning on me first,” Clint offers. “It doesn’t look too likely to bake me or blow me up.”

Bruce puts down the baton and James stares at it like he’s trying to see through it. Or set it on fire with his thoughts. It’s hard to tell.

“Actually, before we get to that, maybe we should start small,” Bruce suggests. “There’s a ham in the fridge.”

“That’s some real science right there,” Clint agrees. “I am always up for a game of “What Shit Can We Scan?”

“You do this often?” James asks.

“You hang out with the science bros long enough you get to do all sorts fun stuff,” Clint agrees. “Plus, they’re great to have around when things breaks. Tony can hook up a DVR like a boss.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Bruce says. Because he knows Tony will love it.

And that’s how after breakfast a two hour game of “What Shit Can We Scan?” starts.

It turns out, the answer to that question is pretty much everything.

James is hesitant to handle the equipment at first, but about the time they move out to the porch to enjoy the cool air of the late morning, he starts to get into it. It’s his idea for Clint to go find some cow shit, and when Clint comes back with a bucket of the stuff ten minutes later, it’s the first real laugh Bruce has heard from James.

They scan ants, and beer bottles, and a spider web. James finds an old watering can with a family of mice living in it around the back side of the chalet and when several mice end up running up the spout and making a jump for safety, Bruce shrieks loud enough to inspire a few rounds of impressions from Clint.

The scanner is genius. The small scanning brick is sleek and white and could pass for a phone except there’s no screen. The longer baton lays on any surface and slits open to project a surprisingly clear holograph above it. The hologram can be swatted through to move pictures forward and backward. It also sends all the information to Bruce’s phone so he can look at the images later or send them to JARVIS for a second opinion.

Bruce grows hungry around noon, right after they’ve done a full body scan of Clint, and suggests they take a break for lunch. James hesitates to agree. He doesn’t outright say no, of course. He just looks unhappy and frustrated and opens and closes his mouth a few times wordlessly.  
Bruce picks up on his reluctance and picks the scanner back up from where he’d laid it on the porch.

“Or we could scan you now,” Bruce says. “If that’s what you’d prefer?”

“Do it now,” James agrees.

Bruce notes the signs of alarm James is giving off. His eyes are slightly wide and his muscles are tense. Either because Bruce has seen this a few times now, or because James seems a little less murderous, the Other Guy doesn’t stir.

Clint wisely gives them space as Bruce waits for James to settle carefully onto the porch. It had been Clint who’d first declared that getting scanned in a chair was too much like being in Medical for him, and he would rather be on the ground. James doesn’t say as much but copies Clint and sits with his legs out in front of him, resting back on his hands.

He’s staring straight forward, as if anticipating orders to hold still. He looks up in surprise when Bruce holds out the brick.

“Unless you would rather I do it, I think you could do all the scanning of your legs yourself,” Bruce suggests. “Or you can try the whole scan on your own and I can check the picture and if there’s something we can’t see clearly we’ll figure it out.”

“You sure you’re a doctor?” James asks, as he takes the brick.

His skepticism makes Bruce laugh. “I’m sure my degree in Nuclear Physics is valid. I’m not nearly as sure I’m qualified to be looking at scans and assessing your health. Thankfully, Tony has an AI that can help me, with your permission. Tony also suggested we get a scan of your arm so we can tell if there’s anything concerning in there. Things like a tracker, or a self-destruct button they could detonate remotely if they ever figure out you’re alive. But that is entirely up to you.”

James seems to weigh all that in his mind then looks to Clint.

“Would you scan the arm if it was yours?”

Clint doesn’t have to think about it. “Yeah, I would. I never trusted doctors much growing up.  
There was always a chance they’d report me and Barney and we’d get separated. Never trusted SHIELD Medical because I guess I always figured their responsibility was to SHIELD not to me. But I trust Bruce. He’s never given me a reason to not.”

“What about Stark?” James asks.

Bruce can't help but admire that James picked up Clint's casually careful wording that had neglected to mention his thoughts on Tony. With every interaction it is more and more obvious that James is genius level smart. He'd have to be, really, to do the things he's done.

Clint takes a second before he answers. “I trust that Tony will do what he says. If he tells Bruce it’s just between them and you, that’s how it will be. I guess I just wouldn’t be as sure he won’t see you as more a science experiment. Sorry, Bruce.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Bruce says easily. “James wouldn’t have asked for your opinion if he didn’t want your honest perspective.”

“Do you agree with him?” James asks. “Stark’s gonna want to experiment on me?”

“I think Tony’s going to have ideas for improvements,” Bruce says. “I think he’ll have sketches and probably a dozen working models within a week, and at least one of them is going to be moderately offensive in that it will be painted to match Steve’s shield or be decorated with little Bucky Bears. But he won’t force the issue. He may create things outside your permission, but he would never experiment on you without your expressed, non-coerced consent. I know he won’t because-- and I’m not bragging here-- I am way more scientifically interesting than you. And while Tony might ask a nosey question here or there, he’s never once treated me as anything less than a person. Not ever.”

“Plus there’s always the threat of the ass-kicking Cap would dole out if he thought anyone was messing with you. That shield ain’t just for decoration,” Clint adds. “Though I guess you already know that, huh?.”

“Seen it first hand, yeah,” James agrees.

He looks down at the scanner. Whatever he’s weighing in his mind, it must end up in favor of trust, because he picks it up and leans down slightly to begin the scan of his knee. 

 

***NEW YORK***

Tony gets up off the couch to go freshen up. He changes into more comfortable clothes, returns to the living room, wraps the blanket around himself like a burrito, and sits down at the table to wait. The elevator dings and Steve walks in, carrying two cups of coffee and a giant grocery bag weighed heavy with food.

“When JARVIS told you to buy me a bagel, did you think he meant all the bagels?” Tony asks.

Steve doesn’t respond right away. He’s too busy staring at Tony in amused confusion.

“I guess I picked a good blanket,” Steve says.

Tony pulls it around himself a little tighter. “It’s not bad,” he agrees.

“To answer your question, I didn’t know what kind of bagels you like and I was hungry-- figured I’d let you pick first then eat the rest.”

“Must be nice to have a supersoldier metabolism,” Tony grumbles under his breath as Steve beings unwrapping breakfast.

“What’s that?” Steve asks. He’s smirking. With his hearing there’s no way he missed it.

“I said thank you for the bagels,” Tony lies.

Steve laughs. Really, honestly laughs. This is so much better than the misery of the past few weeks.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says. “You just wake up?”

“Right before JARVIS asked you to bring me food,” Tony confirms. “Thanks-- really, for breakfast. And for shutting things down last night. Did you get any rest?”

Tony grabs a plain bagel and a little plastic container of plain cream cheese. Steve pulls several bagels from the pile closer to himself.

“A couple of hours,” Steve says. “More than I’ve been getting lately.”

“Any word?” Tony asks.

“Not yet. I figure no news is good news,” Steve says. “Can’t stop thinking about Bucky but this is better. It’s so much better, than not knowing where he is.”

Tony nods. “There’s nobody I’d trust more than Banner. And Clint’s not half the mess he wants us to believe.”

“I trust them,” Steve agrees. “I’m just hoping Bucky can, too.”

Tony nods. “You gonna stick around the tower today?”

“Why?” Steve asks. “You got something in mind.”

Tony shrugs. “Not really. I haven’t been out of here for...” It takes Tony a second to come up with exactly when he’d last left the building which definitely means the answer is Too Long. “Almost a week?”

“I hadn’t left until this morning,” Steve admits. “I’ve been using the gym instead of running outside. Figured some fresh air might do me good.”

“Did it?” Tony asks.

“If you’ll unwrap yourself out of that blanket burrito you can find out for yourself.” Steve looks down at the bagel in his hand and keeps his eyes there as he continues. “I was thinking of heading over to Brooklyn. Jarvis suggested taking some pictures of some of the places me and Bucky used to go. I know-- I know not to get my hopes up. I understand it might not help.”

“But it might,” Tony says gently. “I’m not going to tell you to give up all hope. We already tried that. It wasn’t great.”

“It was not great,” Steve agrees. He looks up from his bagel. “So you’ll come out with me?”

“Give me half an hour to make myself presentable and I’m all yours.”

Steve’s face does something twitchy and then he looks away.

“Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Tony asks.

“Just-- just a weird couple of days,” Steve says. “At the end of one of the worst weeks of my life.”

“Feels kind of like living on a roller coaster,” Tony says.

“Exactly like that.” He pauses, and then picks up another bagel. “I’m gonna eat this in the elevator, shower fast and then meet you back up here. You’re really okay to leave? I know you’ve got a lot--”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it or you just might succeed. Go. I’ll see you in thirty.”

Steve picks up his bagel, gives Tony a nod, and exits quickly. Jarvis has the elevator door already open for him.

Tony unwraps himself and takes one last drink of his coffee before standing. He picks up the blanket and carries it with him to his room, draping it over the edge of his bed carefully. He runs his hand over the soft edge and then sits.

Thirty minutes, that’s plenty of time to give himself a minute.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Do you ever think about-- I-- mean...” Tony trails off because he knows logically Jarvis doesn’t ever think about Mr. Jarvis or Ana and that’s what he was going to ask. His AI doesn’t connect to those events or emotions. In terms of fond memories, Tony is entirely alone. “Nothing.”

“Feeling nostalgic, sir?” Jarvis guesses.

“You could say that,” Tony agrees. “I wish you remembered them. I wish I wasn’t the only one.”

“I do as well,” Jarvis agrees. “What I do know of them gives me reason to believe we had similar objectives in the prioritization of your safety and wellbeing. I do believe I would have liked them very much.”

That makes Tony smile. Jarvis isn’t wrong.

“I believe Captain Rogers feels much the same about Sergeant Barnes,” Jarvis continues. “For him, less than two years have passed since they last met. Yet all those memories, he bears alone.”

Tony looks up at the ceiling. Does the math. Two years is nothing. Hell, it’s been 6 years since he’s seen Yinsen as impossible as that seems. Two dozen years since... 

He squelches the line of reasoning that leads him to his parents. There be dragons.

Which takes him back to Steve’s Bucky memories only seeming two years removed. Why hadn’t that occurred to Tony before? This has to be a _special_ kind of mindfuck for Steve. Tony’s struggling to get his brain around it, and his brain is (if he says so himself) capable of making order out of any kind of chaos. Also that in reverse.

Tony’s phone dings.

He looks at the screen and there’s a texted picture from Bruce, of Clint on the porch of the Swiss Chalet, kneeling next to a bucket of what looks like cow shit, laughing hysterically. At the edge of the frame Tony sees the legs of who must be Bucky Barnes, standing and watching..

The caption reads: _Scanner’s great. We all survived the night. Think we might be making progress._ And then after a few seconds pass another message comes through. _Science is never as fun without you._

Tony takes a screenshot of the picture and the commentary and forwards it on to Steve. 

Might as well pass along the message of hope. Considering everything they’ve all lost, it’s about the only thing they’ve got left.


	7. Brooklyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets a scan of his knee and Tony introduces Steve to the No Judgement Zone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I know I might get comments about it, Steve's struggle with Bucky/James's name is written intentionally. He's definitely trying, but it's not easy for him, and I figured it would be helpful to point this out upfront rather than you wonder if Steve is really having a hard time getting it right or if it's just me having constant brain flails.
> 
> <3 Arrow

Bruce takes a few steps back to give James plenty of space to do the scan of his knee. The floating picture above the baton begins to fill in, and when James hovers the scanner over his injury, Bruce gets his first look at the damage. He’s seen enough of Steve’s second-hand charts to know exactly what he’s looking at.

“I think in another day or two your knee won’t be giving you any more trouble,” Bruce says. “You’ll probably want to consider waiting a week before you jump off any roofs, but walking around should be fine. I still want JARVIS to double-check me if that’s okay?” Bruce asks.

“The computer can look,” James says. He gets up and walks inside, a clear indicator that he's lost interest in the conversation. 

Bruce follows after him and cooks lunch for himself and Clint. They eat while James munches on some StarkBars, and then Bruce takes a nap that lasts most of the afternoon. He wakes up to the sounds of James and Clint debating the merits of different types of weapons. Loudly. From what Bruce can make out, James is about as impressed by a bow and arrow as he'd be by a toy nerf gun. Clint agrees.

They've quieted down a little by the time Bruce joins them, and he isn't surprised to find James and Clint sitting at the dining room table with a huge array of weapons sitting out on display. Bruce doesn't know where they got them and he isn't going to ask.

James has something else he wants to talk about anyway.

“There’s still a malfunction at the knee... it’s not right...” James trails off and lets out an exasperated huff of air that Bruce has grown to realize is his ‘I’m having trouble making words work for me’ signal.

“Your knee doesn’t feel like it’s healing?” Bruce asks.

“How the hell would I know?” James complains.

Bruce is struck by the depth of James’s frustration. Either James was put on ice and left to heal when he couldn’t remember what healing felt like, or he’d been forced to endure missions while in pain. Either way, it’s yet another example of the shitty treatment he's endured for most of his life and it's left him with no understanding of physical recovery and what it entails.

“Sometimes healing hurts,” Bruce says, trying to give James some starting points for processing. “Sometimes healing can hurt even more than the initial injury. And that’s just taking into consideration someone healing in a way that’s typical. I don’t know what your healing is supposed to feel like. Steve’s never been all that specific.”

Bruce regrets not having asked Steve more about it when he had the chance. Not that he’s ever been Steve’s physician; SHIELD and then hospital doctors have had that responsibility. Bruce isn’t even a medical doctor despite his knowledge of biology. There is absolutely no reason Bruce should have followed up with Steve, and there’s no reason to feel guilty for lacking answers now. It doesn’t matter. Logic is guilt’s bitch.

“For me, I don’t think much about the pain, but being stiff feels weird,” Clint tosses in. “My body’s pretty much the only company I have when I’m on a mission so I know exactly what every muscle’s supposed to do and if they don’t do it right, I don’t like it. Not because I can’t push through the pain but because it’s just not right. It’s off.”

James listens and gets that look in his eyes that he gets when he’s trying to reconcile what he’s being told with his own experiences. He stretches out his knee again a few more times, and stares at it so hard, it’s almost like he’s trying to pin it to the floor.

“It’s still malfunctioning,” James says finally, leaning back on his hands and staring up at the ceiling. He sounds defeated.

“There’s going to be more healing,” Bruce says. “So this isn’t your stopping point. Another day could make a big difference here, but if you feel like something’s wrong in the healing process I want to take that seriously. I have two suggestions, and whether or not we try them is entirely up to you. If you would rather just move on, I’m good with that.”

James shrugs. Bruce doesn’t take it as indifference. He gets that right now James is in totally over his head, so without waiting for a reply Bruce continues.

“The first suggestion is that you sit with your right hand resting on your knee for a few minutes. You have a lot of practicing identifying areas of malfunction; I’m not as sure that you have practice noticing the...” Bruce lets out a sigh of his own, because again-- this is where Tony starts tossing words in. “Noticing the nuances of pain,” Bruce continues. “And your hand on your knee may guide your brain to a tangible place of focus. Maybe. Or I might be talking out my ass, because this suddenly feels a lot like I’m talking out my ass.”

Bruce ducks his head in apology, and James looks entirely unimpressed with his idea. Clint is giddy, though.

“I _knew_ doctors did that,” Clint says with a huge smile, as he slaps his hand on his knee. “The talking out the ass thing,” he clarifies. “I just never thought I’d hear one admit it. I might be man-crushing on you a little right now, I’m not even kidding.”

Bruce laughs. Clint is scary good at knowing exactly the right thing to say to ease Bruce’s quickly multiplying self-doubt spirals.

“Yeah, fine, I’ll try it,” James concedes. “At least we all know it sounds stupid.” 

James gives Bruce a look like he’s doing him a favor by humoring the hand on the knee plan. Bruce doesn’t mind since he considers the side-eye from James a kind of progress. If James is engaging at all, Bruce is going to take it as a good sign.

“What’s the other suggestion?” Clint asks, once James has settled into position. “Cause I gotta tell you, I’m really hoping it’s batshit crazy and ends with James wearing yoga pants and balancing on his head.”

That earns Clint a dirty look. “You're gonna get smart with me while I'm sittin' at a table full of weapons that could end you?”

“Oh god, please let me live," Clint fake pleads. "Nat will sit by my grave and never let me hear the end of it if you don't.”

“Natasha Romanoff? Codename Black Widow,” James says, then pauses, as if trying to place a memory. “I shot her.”

“Yeah, you did,” Clint agrees. “Twice.”

“I remember.” James sounds ever so slightly troubled.

“It’s not as big of a deal as it sounds,” Clint consoles. “I’ve tried to kill her; Bruce has tried to kill her. We’ve all pretty much tried to kill each other once or twice. It’s practically an initiation into the Avengers at this point.”

“That would be funny if it wasn’t true,” Bruce says.

"I guarantee you it's better than the initiation to join HYDRA," Clint points out. “So what’s this second suggestion of yours, anyway?”

Bruce appreciates the redirect. James is looking ready to bolt.

“The second suggestion,” Bruce says, “is to call Steve. Ask him what his pain feels like. Then maybe you’ll have a more knowledgeable perspective on what you can expect. It’s up to you though. I won’t call or text him without your permission.”

James doesn’t answer right away. He weighs it like he weighs out everything. Like a person making his own decision for the first time in seventy some years.

“Call him,” James says. “I want to hear but I might not wanna talk.”

“Understood.”

 

***BROOKLYN***

“Wait,” Steve says. “You’re telling me we’re in Brooklyn. At lunchtime. And you want us to eat salad?”

“It’s the best salad in the city,” Tony protests, as they walk down the street together, almost close enough to touch. “And I’m over in this part of town next to never. Just try the salad, Steve. If it doesn’t knock your panties off, we can grab a second lunch. You eat like a hobbit anyway.”

“Hobbits eat second breakfast. There’s no such thing as second lunch,” Steve points out. “And it’s knock your socks off, not your panties.”

“It’s adorable you know all that. I always suspected you were secretly a nerd. You hide it behind the tight shirts but eventually we all find each other. I was telling Rhodey just the other day—”

Tony’s cut off when Steve’s cell rings. 

One glance at his phone stops Steve in his tracks.

“It’s Bruce.”

“Answer it,” Tony prompts him.

Steve does, though the noise from the street is loud and distracting, and people are edging closer because apparently Avengers get no privacy at all. If this is bad news he can’t do this here. He just can’t.

“Bruce— give me one second,” Steve says into the phone, even if he’s not sure where to go that’s going to give him any more privacy. All the store fronts looks the same. Shops. Restaurants. Busy.

Tony grabs Steve by the arm and tugs him into the nearest store, and without asking for permission reaches over to flip the open sign on the window to closed. There are only a couple of people inside, thankfully. If nothing else it’s quiet.

“Hey-- excuse me, sir, you can’t just--” a young man says in the background. Tony walks in further, no doubt to smooth things over, and Steve struggles to take in a breath deep enough to make words work.

"Bruce, I’m still here. We were out on the street, but I’m inside now," Steve rambles, both relief and panic edging into his voice. "Is everything okay?"

“...Yeah, everything’s... hello,” Bruce’s voice comes through the phone. He sounds concerned, but not unhappy. “Everyone’s okay here. We’re just okay out on the porch. Being okay...”

"We're all good, Cap," Clint supplies helpfully. They must be on speaker. "You know, just in case you didn't get that from all the times Bruce said okay.”

Steve feels a wave of relief. Bucky hasn’t run off again. And he hasn’t killed either Bruce or Clint, so that’s good news. 

"Yeah, believe it or not, I put that together," Steve says.

“Words are not my friends,” Bruce says. “For the record, this is why I avoid press conferences.”

"And here I thought it was because Tony’s always sneaking in pointy things to poke you with on stage," Steve comments.

“There’s that, too,” Bruce agrees. 

There’s a pause. Steve speaks again.

"Is there a reason why you called? Not that I’m not happy to hear from you but just… did something happen with..." 

He trails off. He’s not any better with words than Bruce is apparently. 

Tony steps back up next to him and Steve realizes the few shop employees and all the other customers have all disappeared. Tony’s taken care of it like he’s taken care of so many things lately. His presence is steadying in a way Steve’s never noticed before. Like just having him close is making it easier to think.

It’s been a long time since he’s had a friend he trusted like this. Seven decades, at least.

“I’m calling because I’m hoping you can shed a little light on what it’s like for you to heal after a significant injury,” Bruce says. “Is that something you’re comfortable discussing?”

"Injury?" Steve asks. He takes a sharp breath because if Bucky’s injured he should _be_ there. But he can’t be, and this is how he has to do things for now and that sucks. "Yeah, of course. What kind of injury?" he asks. He knows he sounds deflated. It’s the best he can do.

“Something along the lines of a badly broken bone,” Bruce says. “Can you tell me what that might feel like for you?”

“Well-- it’d be uncomfortable,” Steve begins. These are explanations that don’t come easily to him. He doesn’t like to complain. Doesn’t like for other people to notice his pain. He spent long enough under medical scrutiny as a kid to resent it as an adult. “Healing wears me out so I need more rest. I need more food, too. That’s about it.”

“That’s helpful,” Bruce says. “When you say that it’s uncomfortable, could you talk more about that? Actually, can I put you on hold for a second?”

“What? Yes. Absolutely.” 

Bruce mutes the phone. Steve looks to Tony.

“Is Barnes hurt?” Tony asks.

There’s concern there on Bucky’s behalf, and it sounds genuine. Steve appreciates that more than he knows what to do with.

“Bruce didn’t say,” Steve says. “Just asked me about what it feels like to be hurt.”

“I’m guessing the answer he’s looking for isn’t ‘uncomfortable’,” Tony says carefully. “If it hurts like a bitch, then tell him that.”

“I’m not going to say something hurts like a bitch,” Steve shoots back.

“Uhhh-- Steve? Sorry, I’m back. Since it sounds like Tony’s there, you can put this on speaker in case he’s got any thoughts. But-- well, I mean, I _am_ hoping for as much honesty as you can give me. Even if it’s not pretty.”

Steve’s just pressed the button to switch the phone to speaker when James’s voice comes through the line.

“I don’t wanna hear how _Captain America_ is uncomfortable when he’s hurt,” James says sharply. He sounds pissed. Familiar. Spot on to the Bucky that Steve knew. “I want to know what Steve Rogers has to say.”

“Steve Rogers would say the same thing,” Steve says. “You-- I mean Bucky-- always hated that. That I wouldn’t just admit it when things hurt. He’d watch me gasp for air all night, and then hear me tell my mom I was fine when she got home the next morning.” Steve draws in a slow breath, shaken by the memory. "Some days I think he was ready to throttle me himself. He'd usually just tell my Mom, though, which felt like a fate worse than death. He always said he knew I was looking for the quickest way to martyrdom and someone had to stop me.” Steve’s voice falters on the last few words.

“Yeah, well, me and Bucky Barnes have a few things in common, then,” James says. “Thinkin’ you’ve got no sense is one of them.”

“If anyone would call me on my shit, it was Bucky,” Steve agrees. These memories are a new kind of ache. Like scrubbing bleach into a wound. A lot more painful than any broken bone. “So fine, you want to know about my healing abilities I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Is the injury something specific?”

“I malfunctioned,” James says. “At the knee. Now it’s healing stupid and Bruce thinks you might know why.”

“Okay,” Steve starts. He takes a slow breath. “After I’ve been injured, it hurts like hell.”

“Yesssss....” Clint coos from the background on the other end of the line. “Hearing you cuss is just the best.”

“Shut up, Clint,” James complains. “I wanna hear more.”

“After the initial pain goes away, what’s left is like a ghost. The sharpness fades, but there’s still something aching there. I guess my brain expects it to hurt so it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. I can feel the bone mending and that’s not something I think a person is supposed to notice,” Steve adds. “I just have to keep telling myself the pain’s not real and it’ll calm down after a few days. I mostly try not to think about it and by the time I do, it's usually manageable.”

There’s quiet. Even Tony’s silent, just staring at him with a puzzled expression.

“It’s like Steve said,” James says. “Exactly like that.”

There’s more silence. Some shuffling on the other end. The sound of a door closing shut.

“He walked away, Steve,” Bruce says after a pause.

“More than once,” Steve says. “At least this time it’s his choice.”

Tony puts a hand on Steve’s elbow and squeezes. Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“We’ll look after each other,” Bruce promises.

“One more thing before you hang up,” Clint interjects. “Tony? We’re gonna need new digs in the next day or two, if you think you can manage it.”

“Of course,” Tony says. 

The line goes dead. 

“Fuck salad,” Tony says, as Steve lowers the phone. “We’re getting burgers and fries. And we’re getting the hell out of Brooklyn. I’m making an executive decision to say goodbye to these ghosts and get us back to my home turf. That cool with you?”

Steve nods. He doesn’t really trust himself to speak, but he is incredibly grateful that Tony’s plowing ahead.

“Great. Can’t believe I’m suggesting this, but I don’t want to have to wait for Happy to get here and...” Tony taps on his phone a few times. “There’s a QuickCar just down the block.”

“Like a taxi?” Steve asks.

“So much worse,” Tony groans. “But c’mon. It’ll be an experience.”

Experience is one word for it.

“I’m not sure I’m going to fit,” Steve says.

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Tony quips.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I hang out with you.”

“Yes you do,” Tony says, popping open the driver’s side door of the bright orange QuickCar. “Now get in. The seat will move back. You aren’t that much taller than me.”

“But I’m taller,” Steve says.

Now it’s Tony’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, you’re taller. Howard never got around to spiking my Frosted Flakes with Super Soldier Serum. It was a huge oversight on his part.”

“I don’t get why we can’t take an uber,” Steve says, finally opening the door and taking a seat in what might as well be a clown car for as well as it fits either of them.

“Because I want to talk and I sure as shit don’t want what I have to say to end up on the internet. And even if this thing has a camera...” Tony reaches under the steering wheel, pulls out a set of wires and then yanks. “It won’t be listening.”

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll buy the damn car. We’re fine.”

“I’m not arguing,” Steve points out. “I’ve done worse.”

“A story I’m going to demand to hear over lunch,” Tony says. He turns on the car and puts it in drive. “For now, we’re going to talk about feelings and it’s going to suck and just... roll with it, okay?”

“Okay?” Steve asks.

“This is a shitty situation, and I think maybe you need to hear someone say it out loud. It’s shitty. It’s unfair. And even though Barnes is doing what he’s got to do to get by, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck for you. You don’t have to be infinitely patient. Maybe yes with him, but not in front of me.”

“I already broke plates,” Steve says quietly. He doesn't trust himself to say more.

He watches the buildings go past. Considers Tony’s words. Waits for Tony to speak and fill in the quiet but Tony doesn’t. Just weaves through traffic when he can, and sits patiently at the lights when he can’t.

“Okay, fine,” Steve continues. “I’m a little mad at him. Bucky. Fuck. I mean James-- I know it’s not his fault and it’s completely unfair--”

“That’s where I’m going to stop you,” Tony says. “Me and Rhodey have something we call the No Judgement Zone and it’s just what it says on the box. This whole conversation is judgement free. So you want to tell me how much this sucks? Because you can. Even though we both know Barnes wasn’t acting of his own volition and it isn’t nice to hold that against him, for as long as it takes us to get where we’re going, have at him. No one’s ever going to know but me.”

“I’m more than a little mad,” Steve admits. “Not at Buck but at whoever James is. Whoever he _thinks_ he is. Bucky _hated_ that name. I saw him punch a guy once, just cause he wouldn’t stop calling him James even after Bucky asked nicely. So why's he want to be called that now?”

“Not a clue," Tony says.

“Bucky was such a shit,” Steve says. “And just the best-- the best friend I could have ever asked for. And on the phone just now, that wasn’t some guy named James talking, it was Bucky. I _know_ it was Bucky. Nobody but him could ever make callin’ me ‘Captain America’ sound so much like an insult. 'Least till I met you.”

“Glad I’m in good company,” Tony says.

“You are. So either he’s lyin’ or he’s less there than he sounds, or he knows exactly who he is and he’s torturing me for God knows why-- and I just--” Steve pauses. Everything in him wants to apologize for saying all this but Tony wasn’t wrong. Steve’s been bottling it up, and maybe just for a minute, it’s okay to let his guard down and be honest. “I just want to grab him and shake him and make him give me my friend back!”

It comes out as nearly a shout and Steve has to force himself to keep his hands steady in his lap so he doesn't accidentally slam a fist through the car door.

“If I thought for a second that Operation Shake and Wake would work, it'd be the new Plan A,” Tony says consolingly.

“What’s Plan A right now?” Steve asks.

“Keep letting Bruce and Clint handle things and pray to whatever god is listening that they can pull off a miracle.”

“And Plan B?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs. “Well. We know a god.”

“You think Thor could help?” Steve asks. He hadn’t even considered it.

“Who knows?” Tony says. “But I emailed Jane. Asked her to let him know I’m looking for him. Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Steve turns to look at Tony. 

Ever since the words “Who the hell is Bucky?” were uttered, Steve's never been far from misery. In that moment, and every moment since, Steve could only see a future of all or nothing. Either Bucky returned, or Steve lived the rest of his life in loss. He got Bucky back or he would be looking for him forever. Now... looking at Tony. Thinking of dishes thrown, and late night beer, and bad television and Judgement Free Zones... it's the first time that it occurs to Steve that maybe it’s not all or nothing after all. Maybe even without Bucky, there is something left for Steve in the in between.

Something weighty loosens in his soul.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Tony asks.

Steve laughs, quiet and real. “Believe it or not, you couldn’t afford me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roses are Red,  
> Violets are Blue.  
> Kudos are GOLDEN,  
> Happy New Year to You! <3


	8. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team NYC bonds over food, and Team Disaster Waiting to Happen has a late night talk about first impressions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: There is a one line reference to past child abuse. It's within Tony's list of reasons he's visited the burger place for comfort food.

Bruce takes a second to compose himself. It’s not every day you get to break Captain Americas heart. Bruce can’t let that matter. James is his concern now. He can deal with his own weird friendship issues later. For now it’s Elsa time: Conceal. Don’t feel.

They all have more in common with Elsa than they do with Maria Von Trapp anyway.

When Bruce walks inside, James is sitting on the couch, his hand resting carefully on his knee. Clint is back at the table, assembling a gun.

“You okay, doc?” Clint asks. He’s looking at Bruce like he’s checking for shades of green.

“I’m fine,” Bruce says. He is. He’s not smashing anything so he’s got to be fine, right? “Really. And good call on a new place. I’m getting antsy here, I think.”

“Seems like we all are,” Clint agrees.

“Tony will probably have us a new place before the day is out, but I think it’d be good to give James’s knee one more day to rest before we try and hike," Bruce says. "Especially if you’re still in any pain, James. It would be helpful if you can keep us updated.”

“I can walk through pain,” James disagrees. “I’m malfunctioning; not useless.”

“I have no doubt that you could outwalk me by a couple dozen miles,” Bruce says. “But if you could do it without pain, that would be my preference. I care about your comfort in the same way I would care about Clint’s comfort.”

“You’d be about the only one,” Clint says. “SHIELD wasn’t big on coddling.”

“SHIELD was HYDRA in sheep's clothing,” Bruce says, unhappily. “And I think that explains a lot about some of the medical ethics I witnessed there first hand.”

“I wish I’d talked to you after the whole New York thing,” Clint sighs. “They made me see a SHIELD therapist. He was... not real helpful.”

The look on Clint’s face makes Bruce bristle. He can only imagine.

“I’m not sure how much help I’d have been,” Bruce admits. “I have good intentions but my implementation could use some work.”

“I never knock good intentions,” Clint says. “They’re rarer than you think. You didn’t really get to know Phil, but sometimes you remind me of him. He was always good at this stuff. He put up with me, when I don’t think anyone in their right mind would’ve. I was a mess back then-- well, more of a mess. Phil just had this way about him that made me trust things could be okay.”

Bruce cocks his head, confused for a moment. “Tony said Agent Coulson is still--”

“Phil is dead,” Clint cuts him off sharply. “I don’t know who SHIELD has running around with his face. The real Phil Coulson never would have left me to deal with that shit on my own.”

Clint sounds as hurt and angry as Bruce has ever heard him. Honestly, he’s not sure he’s ever heard Clint sound this vulnerable now that he thinks about it. Either the subject is that raw, or Clint is letting his guard down a little. 

“That’s my mistake,” Bruce says easily. “And for what it’s worth, I wish I could’ve been more help after New York. It took me some time to get my footing. Things were... tense...”  
Bruce sort of trails off with that sentence and Clint nods. He gets it.

“Think I’m gonna go for a run,” Clint says. “Clear my head.”

“I’m sorry-- if bringing up Coulson--”

“That’s not it,” Clint argues. “I’ve never been good at the indoors or talking about my feelings. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

James looks up from his knee. “Take a gun.”

Clint nods. “I always do.”

 

***NEW YORK***

Tony takes his time driving to the burger place. Steve’s got a lot to get out, and Tony’s going to let him do it. Honestly, it’s probably equally cathartic for them both.

Tony doesn’t say much. It’s Steve’s turn to rant, and wow-- when he gets going does that Brooklyn accent come out strong. Tony did not know this was a kink of his but it is absolutely, most definitely a kink. At least judging from the very vivid mental image Tony’s got of Steve using that same accent in bed. It’s so incredibly inappropriate to even think about kinks when he’s supposed to be making a stab at being a supportive friend that Tony digs his fingernails into his palm.

_Be good. Be good. Be good._

But just... gaaaawd.

Tony rolls to a stop. They’ve reached within a block of their destination and he can’t stay in the car a second longer. He’s not entirely sure he’s in a legal parking zone. Doesn’t matter. JARVIS’ll take care of it.

“Feel any better?” Tony asks. He is extremely proud that his voice doesn’t crack even a little.

Steve pauses. Looks over at Tony, and the smile Steve gives him is small and real. “Yeah. Think I do. Thanks. That was probably a lot to listen to.”

“Oh no. Not at all,” Tony assures him, as he climbs out of the driver's seat. “You should hear Rhodey when he gets going. One time we got in a car in Malibu and we made it all the way to Vegas on just one rant,” Tony says fondly.

“That must have been fun,” Steve laughs.

“It was actually,” Tony says. “Can’t really tell you what the rant was about since the Judgement Free Zone takes place within the Circle of Secrets, but I promise, it was epic.”

“Circle of Secrets?”

“We met when I was fourteen and I had zero references for what friendship looked like. It took a lot of hand-holding. Boat loads of patience. Rhodey ended up getting real creative with Friendship 101.”

“Bucky and I had an island,” Steve says. “Not-- I mean, obviously not a real island. That’s just what we’d say when we’d tell each other somethin’ confidential. “This has got to stay on the island.” Don’t even remember how it started...”

“Maybe someday soon you’ll be able to ask him,” Tony says. “You never know.”

They arrive at the burger place, which is a total hole in the wall. Steve stares at the window-papered door with marked skepticism. 

“Yeah, you never know,” Steve agrees quietly.

“Hope you weren’t looking forward to anything fancy,” Tony says. “We needed comfort food, and they make hamburgers here with the fries under the bun and eggs on top. It doesn’t get more comforting than that.”

It really doesn’t. Tony knows this, having come here for food after such grand events as: 

1) The Big Gay Freakout of ‘88.  
2) The One Time Howard Really Hauled Off and Punched Him in the fall of 1990.  
3) The Day After the Funeral in ‘91. 

Plus a whole bunch of times since.

Since it’s lunch time, the place is crammed full of people. They can’t talk about anything important so they chat about the mundane as they eat. It’s actually kind of nice. Tony can’t remember the last time he sat and made comfortable small talk. The sort where you just give your friend shit the whole time, and nothing you say matters.

“Do you mind walking back to the tower?” Tony asks as they stand from their booth. “Might be nice to get a little more fresh air.”

They have to press close as they make their way toward the door between all the people crowded into the small dining area. Tony’s whole body feels warm from the physical contact with Steve and that is _definitely_ new.

So it’s either a crush or all the french fries. Fun times.

“I don’t mind at all,” Steve confirms once they're outside. “Thanks. For everything, by the way. The last few days, especially. I was in a bad place. Guess you must have noticed.”

Tony nods. “Wish I’d noticed sooner. I was in my own bad place.”

“Not anymore?”

“I don’t know how it’s going to feel seeing Barnes for the first time, but I’m not dreading it. And I do hope Bruce and Clint can make some magic happen.”

“Would not have guessed of anyone on the team, we’d be pinning our hopes on them,” Steve says. “Not that-- I mean-- Bruce and Clint are great.”

“But Bruce needs his alone time and Clint’s a disaster?” Tony guesses.

“I don’t know if I’d call him a disaster.”

“The last time I saw Barton in person, it was because he got himself banned from SoupSoupSoup for abusing the All You Can Drink Soda Machine, and he dropped by the tower to ask if I could buy the place and re-institute his soup privileges.”

Steve stops mid-stride and turns to look at Tony. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Oh, I wish,” Tony says.

“What did you do?”

“Didn’t buy the place,” Tony assures him. “But I did call the owner. Offered to start a tab for the Avengers. If you’re ever down there, the soda machine really is truly unlimited now. Grab as many Mega-Gulps as you want.”

Steve chuckles. “I think one is plenty.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” Tony agrees.

After that they talk about more trivial things. The latest news from SI, some upgrades on JARVIS, an art pad Steve had seen on the internet.

“You know I could make you a way better art pad, right? Like. The best art pad?” Tony asks.

“Do you know anything about art pads at all?” Steve asks.

“Since when has that ever stopped me?” Tony asks in return.

Steve nods. “You do have a point. I could tell you what I like and don’t like about the ones I’ve tried so far, if that helps.”

“Let’s do it,” Tony says. “It’ll be nice to collaborate on something that’s not for the team for once.”

“Would SI really mass-produce it if you design something?”

“Sure,” Tony says easily. “I still have some sway. You want one that bad?”

“I was just thinking... they’re expensive. The really good art pads, I mean. I know that’s not a problem for me. I can afford whatever at this point, or if I couldn’t I’d just need to mention it once and you’d make sure I had one by dinner.”

Tony laughs. “I’m that predictable, huh?”

“It’s not a bad thing to be generous,” Steve clarifies. “When I was trying to get into art school, I could barely afford the pencils. If SI produced art pads, maybe I could put some of my money into buying them and sending them out to kids. Or adults. Anyone who needs one and can’t afford it.”

Tony could do that himself, if it came down to it, but there is something about Steve’s tone that helps Tony realize Steve probably needs to do this for himself.

“I think that sounds entirely doable,” Tony agrees. “JARVIS could help you with the paperwork and with setting up a foundation. He’s pretty much an expert at charitable giving.”

Pepper is too, but Pep has been keeping her distance, so JARVIS is the better option.

“That’d be great,” Steve enthuses. “It’s been so long since I felt like I knew what to do with myself. Thanks." Steve pauses, then adds "If I keep thanking you for all this help, is it going to get annoying?”

“Gee. Constant gratitude from Captain America. So irritating,” Tony deadpans. “I don’t know how I'll stand it.”

“Shut up,” Steve objects with a smile, then hip-checks Tony lightly just to be a brat. 

And it’s a good thing it’s a light bump, since Tony’s pretty sure Steve’s hips could put a man through a brick wall if he put any force behind them. And isn’t _that_ a thought for future bedroom use.

Thankfully they make it back to tower without Tony saying anything idiotic or embarrassing despite what is now an absolute and undeniable crush. JARVIS lets them know that Sam and Natasha have returned, and Steve and Tony split up for a bit with plans to meet up with everyone for dinner.

Tony has J order Indian, and dinner is served at 6. 

Sam warms up to Tony pretty quickly, now that it’s obvious Tony really is on their side. And since Tony hasn’t heard much about the events that led up to the Tri-Skelion mess, he gets filled in on the details over Lamb Jalfrezi and beer. When Sam brings up his broken wings and sounds completely torn up about their loss, Tony stops with his fork in mid-air.

“Do you have what’s left of them?”

“Yeah. I picked up what I could,” Sam says.

“I could fix them up for you,” Tony offers. “Probably wouldn’t take me more than a day.”

“One day, and you’re gonna figure out how they worked, get all the materials you need, and super-glue them all back together?” Sam asks skeptically.

“Wouldn’t need to figure out how they work,” Tony says. “I had a hand in the original project. They’re based on my designs.”

That gets the table quiet.

“They were _what_?” Sam asks.

“They’re based on my designs. You don’t think everything I touch automatically gets the Stark logo on it do you?”

“Um... yes?” Sam asks. “Are you serious? I can’t tell. Is this some kind of billionaire version of punked?” He glances around the room as if looking for a camera crew. 

“When SI was still all about the weapons, I couldn’t get much past the board that didn’t involve big bangs,” Tony says. “But there has always been something about the Icarus story that really pisses me off, so I worked on wings in my spare time. Turned all my work over to Rhodey and he took it from there.”

“Oh god-- you’re my new favorite," Sam says. "I’m sitting here like ‘Steve who?’ right now. You can get them fixed? By tomorrow?”

“Pretty sure I can,” Tony affirms.

“Who’s ‘on your left’ now?” Sam demands, throwing up his arms in triumph.

Steve laughs loudest of them all.

“Go get whatever pieces you’ve got and meet me down at the lab,” Tony tells Sam. "JARVIS’ll show you the way. I can’t guarantee they’ll look exactly the same since I’m gonna need to scavenge parts from my old suits, but it’ll be close and I can guarantee you they’ll fly. Probably better than before.”

“You might want to consider Winter-Soldier-Proofing them,” Natasha suggests.

Steve gives her a _look_ and she shrugs. 

Sam is not going to waste another second. He's happy as a school kid as he hops to his feet.

“I’ll help you carry,” Natasha offers. "Let these nerds clean up."

JARVIS has the doors open for them before they get to the elevator.

“24 hours?” Steve asks, once he and Tony are clearing the table.

“I work fast,” Tony says.

“And you don’t sleep, apparently. Want any company?” Steve asks. 

“If you feel like staying up,” Tony agrees, which is way more chill than the _yes yes yes_ his brain supplies.

“Don’t really sleep much anymore, anyway,” Steve says.

“Then by all means, come entertain me. If you get bored watching me work, you can tell me everything there is to know about art pads.”

“Won’t that distract you?”

Not in the way Steve thinks. Tony feels greedy for his time now. Pleased with anything that’s going to keep Steve on the lab sofa until the early morning hours.

“I work better when I multi-task,” Tony says.

“In that case, give me a minute to change into something more comfortable and I’ll meet you down there.”

Tony can think of way worse ways to spend an evening. All of them end with him alone.

 

***SWITZERLAND***

It’s well after midnight and they’ve all been hanging out in the living room, reading quietly for about half an hour, when Clint speaks up.

“James, what is it about that shirt that’s making you twitchy?” Clint asks. “That’s not criticism or anything,” he adds quickly, putting up both his hands in the universal sign for _I’m not trying to be a dick here_. “You’ve been tugging on it for the last ten minutes and I’m sure we could get you something that fits better if there’s a problem. You don’t have to suffer in silence.”

“Wouldn’t call an uncomfortable shirt any kind of suffering,” James quips. “The shirts Hydra dressed me in were different. They...” James trails off and looks up at the ceiling.

Bruce isn’t sure if James is having a flashback or searching for the right words, but he’s gotten to know James well enough by now that he recognizes it as one or the other.

“Hydra made me special clothes. My metal arm is bigger than my skin arm, so all these shirts either feel tight around the metal, or too loose around the skin. There’s no in between.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Bruce says, and honestly, the conversation solves another word problem Bruce has been struggling with. “So skin arm and metal arm is how you’d like us to talk about your arms? I haven’t been sure how to differentiate them in conversation without being rude.”

“One’s got skin and one’s got metal. That seem complicated to you?” James asks. His eyes flicker up to Bruce’s face and he looks almost amused.

“I overthink my words,” Bruce explains. “I want to be careful because people can be self-conscious when there’s something about them that isn’t typical. Not many people have metal arms.”

“But the ones who do are totally bad ass,” Clint adds.

Maybe it isn’t significant, but there’s something about the way James stares down at his hands after their quick conversation that feels promising. Like maybe for the first time in a long time he’s realizing that both hands belong to him. 

“In New York could I get shirts that fit?” James asks.

“Tony will figure something out,” Bruce agrees.

“I don’t know if I can trust him,” James says. “Or Rogers. He wants me captured.”

“Steve wants you home,” Bruce says gently.

James looks skeptical. 

“Story time,” Clint declares. “The first time I met Steve I’d just spent the better part of a day trying to kill him.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Is this how all your stories start?”

Clint shakes his head no. “The other half start with people trying to kill _me_.” 

“Sounds right,” James agrees.

“So anyway I’m beat up and exhausted,” Clint continues, leaning against one of the bar-stools without actually sitting on it. “I’m strapped to a chair. Cap walks in and tells Tasha they need a pilot. I say I can fly. I was all ready to make some kind of elaborate case for myself, because let’s get real-- this is Captain America and I’m circus trash. So I’m stuck there, trying to remember the Pledge of Allegiance and wondering where I can get a bald eagle to swear it on. At that point I just wanted to help. However they’d let me. Whatever it took. But all I do is I make my offer, and Steve looks at Tasha and she gives him a little nod, and that’s it. That’s all he needed. One nod and I was on the team.”

Bruce has never heard that story before and he smiles to himself. Mostly at the image of Clint trying to wrestle down a bald eagle.

“I’d have shot you,” James says with finality.

“And you’d have been smart to do that,” Clint says, waving a hand dismissively. “I have a face that pisses people off. Anyway, the important part is that Steve _didn’t_ shoot me. And he didn’t leave me in a holding cell to rot. He’s a good man. I wouldn’t tell you he was if he wasn’t.”

“I killed Stark’s parents,” James reminds them, as if there is any chance they’d forget.

“Tony’s... Tony,” Bruce says simply. “There’s no easy way to explain what’s going on there, but he’s not a threat. I guess maybe it’s time for a story of my own. Meeting Tony Stark-- I don’t know if you’d have a reference for what that would be like. He’s famous. He’s _really_ famous, and I would say, up until around the first time I met him, he was kind of notorious for being a dick.”

Clint snorts. “Understatement.”

“When I found out Tony Stark was headed our way... a big part of me wanted to curl up in a hole and die. I’ve faced scorn from the scientific community for years. I’m a persona non grata-- totally unwanted. At best I’m a cautionary tale and at worst I’m a monster. I fully expected Tony to treat me like shit. I really did.”

“But he didn’t?” James guesses.

“No,” Bruce says, with a soft smile and a shake of his head. “No, Tony treated me like I was-- like I was brilliant and valuable and human. I can’t-- can’t really--”

Bruce can feel tears stinging at the edges of his eyes and he is _not_ going to cry. He clears his throat and smiles again.

“The important part is that Tony accepted me at face value. Didn’t try to change me. Didn’t care about my past. Didn’t seem to mind that I’d _broken_ Brooklyn.”

“What if I get there and they want to use me? I’m a weapon. An asset. They’re gonna realize I’m not Bucky Barnes and then that’s all I’m good for,” James hedges.

“If you come with us to New York you won’t be a prisoner. You won’t be a slave. None of us would ever deliberately make you do _anything_ you don’t want to do. That’s not how we work.” 

“Why do you keep sayin’ deliberately?” James asks. “Sounds like you’re givin’ yourself an out.”

“Not an out,” Bruce says. “It’s hard not to give you accidental orders. I’m trying to account for that.”

James looks at Bruce like he’s batshit crazy. It would be almost comical if it wasn't kind of sad.

“Clint and I do it to each other all the time-- there’s-- there’s a freedom to say no in friendship that we take for granted. For example I might tell Clint, ‘Hey, get me a beer.’ It’s not an order, it’s a request, but I don’t always phrase it like a polite request to Clint because I know with absolute certainty that if Clint doesn’t want to get me the beer, he’ll tell me to fuck off.”

“Damn straight,” Clint says with a pleased smile. “I like to tell Bruce to fuck off at least once a week. Keeps him on his toes.”

Clint has never actually told Bruce to fuck off, which is why Bruce laughs.

“Right,” Bruce says. “So I don’t worry about accidentally telling Clint to do something. It’d be different with you right now. I’m trying extremely hard to phrase anything I ask you as a question with an out so you don’t interpret it as an order. But I might forget.”

“It wouldn’t be deliberate,” Clint adds, to clear up James’s suspicion.

“If I slip up, it’s because I would accidentally talk to you the way I would talk to my friends. Just know, if I ever tell you to do something and you don’t want to do it, I give you absolute, irrevocable permission to tell me to fuck off, okay? Like Clint says, it keeps me on my toes.”

For half a minute James stares at his hands, moving his fingers one by one.

“You’re sayin’ you’re treating me like a friend,” James says. There is so much skepticism in his voice it sounds accusatory.

“That’s the jist of it, yeah. That’s exactly what I’m trying to say. Poorly. Because you _are_ my friend. Or I’d like you to be. I guess whether you are or not is up to you.”

“I like to live dangerously,” Clint says with a bright smile. “So yeah-- sign me up for being your friend, too. If you wouldn’t mind.”

James looks up from his hands and lets out a breath, like he’s exhaling his confusion. “Guess it makes sense, what with neither of you havin’ one lick of sense.”

“That’s us,” Clint agrees, spreading his hands apart in a ‘Ta da!’ kind of motion. “At least you know what you’re signing up for.”

“Fine. We can be friends, I guess. But just for the record,” James says, turning to look at Clint with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You ever fuck me over, I’m gonna shoot you in the face, friend or not. And unlike your other pals, I don’t miss.”

Clint just beams. “Consider it noted.”


	9. Tactical Disadvantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James starts thinking more for himself, Steve and Tony do what might pass for flirting, and Clint and Bruce have the very best intentions.

***SWITZERLAND***

The rest of the evening passes peacefully enough. None of them are great at resting but after weeks of being away from comfort, Bruce is content to wedge himself into a corner of the sofa and catch up on world news. Clint’s after dinner run produced a hoodie pocket full of finds-- a couple knives, a compass, a burner phone, a dozen packs of gum. He and James sit at the table and clean the knives and dissect the burner phone for some purpose Bruce can’t quite suss out.

It doesn’t matter. It’s the most relaxed James has looked in days. 

When it gets close to eleven, Clint begins to pack up his things.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Clint warns. “I’m gonna be really pissed if I get back in the morning and you’ve stayed up all night having bro talk and braiding each other’s hair.”

“You read it right out of my mind,” Bruce deadpans. “The only thing you got wrong was the timeline. I am an expert with braids. I’d have us both done in under twenty minutes.”

“Wait till we get to New York,” Clint says. “Cause now I’ve got something to put money on with Stark. Who’s the better braider, you or Nat?”

“The safe money is on Natasha,” Bruce says. “I _might_ have been overstating my skill-set.”

“I’m on to you, Banner. What to do you think, James? Is he bluffing?”

James doesn’t respond. He’s distracted by his reflection in the window. He runs his skin-covered fingers carefully over his hair. He looks troubled.

“I won’t really braid your hair,” Bruce assures him, in case that’s what has James worried. “We were being ridiculous. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know when it got so long,” James says quietly. He lets out his usual huff of frustration when expressing himself takes effort. “I don’t remember. I don’t like it. I _can_ not like it now.”

Bruce gives him a sad smile. “Absolutely. You can _not_ like anything you want.”

“It doesn’t have to stay long,” Clint says. “Unlike Bruce, I’m not inflating my skills when I say I am one hell of a hair professional. I learned from the best.”

“SHIELD offers classes in that?” Bruce asks.

“Occasionally,” Clint says. “But no. I learned way before SHIELD. Hair and makeup is probably the most marketable circus skill on my resume, after The World’s Greatest Marksman.”

“Every day I learn something new,” Bruce says. The admiration in his voice isn’t a bit false. Sometimes Clint really is a wonder. “I cut my own hair. Always have.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Clint says kindly (Bruce really does not believe him.) “So what do you say? Tomorrow morning want to play barbershop?”

Bruce makes a face, still not entirely sure the archer isn’t plotting to give him a mohawk just so Clint can go around saying mo-hulk for a month. But James nods.

“I want it cut. I want--” It’s painful to listen to James drown in the effort of words. “I want it shorter. It’s always in my face. Tactical disadvantage.”

“Just goes to show you, HYDRA’s a bunch of ignorant assholes,” Clint says helpfully. “Best marksman in the world, except for maybe me, and then they put you at a disadvantage. It’s one thing being evil, but do they have to be evil and stupid?”

James doesn’t agree; he does nod though, and there’s something pleased about his expression. It’s obvious he enjoys anyone shit-talking his ex-imprisoners.

Clint drops his bag on the table and begins to rustle through it. He pulls out a small, beat up laptop, and hands it over to James.

“Tony put some kind of off-the-grid internet on here for me, so you don’t need to worry about being tracked. Look up some haircuts and pick something you like. You know how to Google?”

The look James gives Clint could set him on fire and Clint just beams like a murder glare from the world’s deadliest assassin is exactly the reaction he was hoping for.

“You’re a Google pro,” Clint corrects. “Got it. Fair warning, don’t look at my search history while you’re in there, unless you want to see porn. My tastes run a ways past vanilla so view at the risk of your virtue. And pick something for Bruce while you’re looking. A hairstyle, I mean. Pick out hair, not porn,” Clint clarifies.

“No one’s touching my hair,” Bruce chimes in. “Or my porn for that matter. I like my porn on paper and my hair on my head, thanks. James, the same can go for you. Feel free to tell Clint to fuck off if you’d rather cut your hair yourself. Even if he’s already got the scissors in his hand. You aren’t obligated to let him do anything you don’t want, even if you've already given him permission.”

James makes eye contact with Bruce for long enough to let Bruce know he considers this conversation to be the very height of stupidity, and then he returns his focus to the laptop.

“Do you have scissors or are you planning to try this with your knife collection?” Bruce asks Clint, as Clint zips his duffel bag closed.

“Give me some credit, Doc. When I come back tomorrow I’ll have everything I need.”

“I feel like I should be bothered that I’ve got no clue if you’re late night shopping in the nearest beauty supply or knocking over a corner store, but honestly, I’m too tired to care.”

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Clint replies, with a wink.

Bruce falls asleep in his bed about an hour later, still wondering.

  
  
***NEW YORK***

It’s different-- good different-- to watch Tony work with his hands. Most of the time when Steve’s watching Tony do his thing it’s the type of science-fiction-whiteboard stuff Steve has no hope of understanding. Fixing Sam’s wings is physical, mechanic-type labor and Steve could watch Tony do it all night.

For one, because Tony’s swearing up a blue streak and it’s hilarious. For another: forearms.

Tony’s got about the best forearms Steve’s ever seen. They are attached to great looking arms in general. Steve doesn’t have a lot of words for the way watching Tony beat at metal with a hammer warms up his insides, but he does have the memories of the few times before the ice when he had gone to his knees for men who made him feel a whole lot less. Their memories are nothing compared to this.

Not that Tony would notice.

Tony is off somewhere else in his head. He talks occasionally outside of the cussing, but it’s mostly muffled under his breath and most of what he says is about shipping Dum-E off to K-Mart if the bot can’t get his act together. (Tony clearly adores Dum-E so Steve doesn’t believe the threats are valid even for a second.)

Steve is enthralled. Days could pass, and Steve’s pretty sure he’d be content right where he is. At least until Tony yawns. 

It’s almost 4 AM. Steve stands, doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t want to interrupt, and heads up to the penthouse to grab some coffee and a snack. He makes it back to the lab in under 10 minutes.

“I thought you must have gotten bored,” Tony says, looking up at Steve’s return.

“I was the farthest thing from bored,” Steve confesses. He sits the muffins and the coffee down on the table next to Tony. “Can you take a break?”

Tony looks between his work and the treats. 

“For a couple of minutes,” Tony concedes. “No rest for the wicked.”

“You _have_ saved the world a couple times. How wicked can you be?”

“Ask Sam when he comes running in here at dawn and I’m only three-fourths of the way finished with his wings.”

Tony flexes his left hand a few times, like his fingers are aching.

“Can I help?” Steve asks.

“What? You want to hold my sippy-cup for me?”

Tony lifts the mug and takes a cautious sip, checking the heat.

“I was more thinking you could let me massage your hand,” Steve suggests.

Tony tilts his head like he doubts Steve’s sincere. When he decides that Steve is, he places the mug down on the table, turns his hand over, palm up, and holds it out insistently. Steve sits down next to Tony on the bench and takes his hand. He’s careful to be gentle as he presses down and begins to knead. It’s impossible to resist smoothing his thumb over a few of Tony’s callouses, but otherwise Steve keeps it professional. 

He works for several minutes before Tony’s eyes close. His breathing slows. He’s still upright so he must be awake, but it’s as calm as Steve has ever seen him. Tony slits open one eye when Steve switches from the left hand to the write, but that’s all the reaction he gets from him apart from relaxation. It’s nice. Steve could happily continue long past where it might get weird.

When he finishes, his own hands feel weirdly empty after het lets go. He reaches for a muffin out of the need to grasp something-- anything-- so he doesn’t reach back for Tony.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Tony asks. He still looks calm as he goes back to drinking his coffee.

“USO Tour. Some of those girls would offer just about anything for a couple of minutes of my time. Back in the day, we called what I just gave you a ‘hand job’,” Steve says with a straight face.

Tony’s eyes light up with perfect mischief and his mouth forms an amazed oooo. Steve doesn’t mind going to hell for a lie, if this is the reaction it gets.

“Please- _please_ tell me I’m not dreaming,” Tony says. “And that you’re telling the truth. And also that I can retell this story to Rhodey word for word.”

Steve laughs. “Well, you can tell Rhodey, but sadly, it’s not true. Just wanted to see your face when I said it.”

Tony’s smile broadens and he laughs so hard he ends up leaning against Steve to keep his balance.

“So you didn’t really give me the old-timey version of a hand job?” 

“No, Tony. A hand job was the 40s version of a hand job.”

“Disappointing,” Tony says. “Follow up question. JARVIS can you be sure to save the audio of this and make Steve saying ‘handjob’ over and over his ringtone please?”

“You’re such a shit,” Steve teases.

“And you are an absolute delight after two AM,” Tony agrees.

“You aren’t really going to make that my ringtone are you?”

“It would be pointless. My phone is never on anything but silent,” Tony says. “So. Real follow up question: Any of those showgirls really get you to third base? Or whatever the equivalent was back in the olden days?”

“No,” Steve says honestly. “Nothing ever went that far. They weren’t my type.”

“Not pretty?” Tony asks.

“Not men,” Steve says.

There’s a few second pause, as Tony tries to work out if Steve’s having him on again.

“Umm excuse me what?” he finally asks.

“Which part’s confusing you exactly?” Steve asks. 

“Ummm, I’m pretty sure that you being into guys is something I’d have heard before.”

“Well, it wasn’t common knowledge, obviously. But it was a thing. Is a thing. Yeah.”

“A thing,” Tony says, smiling wondrously. “Are you coming out to me right now?”

“That makes it sound like no one knew. There were people who did. Peggy for one. The Howling Commandos. Your dad.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Tony says in horror, like a hundred horrible images flashed through his head all at once. “Tell me you and Howard never--”

“Nothing ever went on between me and Howard,” Steve rushes to assure him. “He knew though, and he covered for me every now and then when I needed an alibi.’

“How’d he react? When he found out you weren’t perfect?”

“Who says I’m not?” Steve asks in false affront.

This isn’t exactly a conversation he wants to have at stupid o’clock in the morning. Howard’s reaction had been complicated, as most things involving Howard were.

Tony’s smile changes, into something more thoughtful. Of course he knows deflection when he sees it. He’s a master of it, after all.

“You aren’t perfect,” Tony points out. “If you were, you’d be a lot less interesting. But come on-- now I want to hear your USO hand job stories that had nothing to do with the chorus girls. Who was it? The guy who played Hitler? Some townie from Podunk, PA? You’ve got to spill or I’m gonna fill in all my own blanks.”

The questions continue as Tony gets back to work. Steve only worries for a minute that the distraction will derail Sam’s wings before it’s obvious Tony’s second wind has reinvigorated the process. 

The wings comes together fast after that and by around 8 AM when Sam comes bouncing in looking like a kid on Christmas morning, they’re ready for a short test flight. 

Tony’s genius is nothing short of amazing. And so is Tony.

 

***SWITZERLAND***

The next morning, James is still waffling on hairstyles while Bruce cooks breakfast. Clint shows up as soon as the smell of bacon fills the air, and James ignores them both as he taps away at the laptop. Since the screen is facing the kitchen, it’s hard for Bruce not to notice that James keeps switching between tabs: some that are pictures of random men with short hair and some that are most definitely pictures of Bucky Barnes circa 1940 something.

James carries the computer over to join them at the table when Bruce and Clint sit down to eat.

“So what’d you decide? Cut or no cut?” Clint asks. “Like Bruce said, it’s not going to hurt my feelings if you change your mind. Your body-- your hair-- your choice.”

“I want it cut,” James says.

He turns the screen toward them to show them a picture that’s not Bucky Barnes but could definitely be his first cousin. 

“We can move out to the porch after breakfast,” Clint says. “That way the wind can do some of the work and we won’t have to sweep up.”

“Fine.” 

James spins the computer back toward himself and stands up to get a glass of water and a StarkBar. 

When they finish their food, James wastes no time standing up and walking out to the porch. Clint shrugs and follows. With nothing to do otherwise, Bruce follows them outside and moves off to the side so he won’t be in the way.

It’s hard not to ask James to confirm one last time this is what he wants. It’s hard, but Bruce resists because he will not infantilize James, and third-guessing him when he seems so sure about his decision would be a dick move. That’s a shitty way to treat an adult and it's not the way Bruce would ever want to be treated.

So instead Bruce watches James carefully and really, everything seems to be okay. James is responding fine to questions, he sits calmly on the bench that Clint drags over, and he’s looking up at Clint when Clint speaks to him. James fidgets a little as Clint pulls out the scissors and holds them out for James to inspect but Bruce can’t say that fidgeting has ever been a bad sign. He does it himself, when he’s feeling uncomfortable and needs to remember which skin he’s in.

Everything goes smoothly right up until the moment Clint snips the scissors shut against the first lock of hair. James is on his feet in an instant. The bench slams backwards into the wall with enough force to split the wood and splinter in a dozen directions. James doesn’t take off running. Instead he stops at the edge of the porch, and Bruce realizes somehow James now has the scissors in his hand and he’s holding them like a deadly weapon.

Clint has his hands up in surrender, looking as dead-calm as a deep lake on a windless day. Like this is exactly what he’d hoped to be doing on a Thursday afternoon. Like he is totally unflappable while Bruce is Super Fucking Flapped.

It takes everything in Bruce to dig his fingers into his palm and concentrate on all the very valid reasons he doesn’t need to go green to protect Clint. Clint’s got this, even as the Other Guy is pointing out how Clint is small, and squishy and made of meat.

“Hey James, buddy?” Clint asks. “Maybe don’t kill me with those? I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m gonna keep my hands where you can see them and sit down real slow.”

James’s expression is dangerous. Predatory, even, but Bruce understands why Clint isn’t making a run for it. That would only make things worse. Thankfully once Clint’s down on his rear, James lowers the scissors a few inches.

“So a haircut is out, I think,” Bruce says.

James takes a step back, still wary. He sways a little on his feet, like balance is a problem. 

“We aren’t mad at you,” Clint says, with more warmth in his voice than fear. “You have to keep yourself safe, right? So hold on to those scissors for me. You can keep them.”

James’s eyes dart between the two men and he takes a step back to lean against one of the porch supports. Now that the initial panic is gone Bruce empathizes with James’s struggle to regain control. 

“We won’t stop you if you have to go,” Bruce says. “But personally, I’d like it if you stayed. There’s no punishment for this. I understand why scissors can be a trigger. They are for me, too. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Clint speaks in Russian, and while Bruce can’t understand it, it’s calm and steady sounding. Clint stays very still until James’s body slumps more heavily against the post and he lowers the scissors entirely. When that happens, Clint moves to stand.

“I’m going to go inside,” Clint says, in a tone that’s easy and peaceful and firm.

“Me, too,” Bruce agrees. “James, I hope you’ll choose to stay, but if you need to go, we won’t stop you and we won’t track you.” 

“You can track us, though,” Clint adds. “Shouldn’t be hard.”

James doesn’t verbally acknowledge the offer. Instead he meets Clint’s eyes, looks terribly unimpressed by their efforts to comfort him, then stomps into the house. The door to his bedroom slams a few seconds later. Clint and Bruce follow him inside and Bruce flops onto the couch before pulling a throw pillow over his face to just hold it there.

He can’t even fathom the depths of how much he may or may not be fucking this up. Is it good James stayed? Sure, probably. Is it a sign James has gone from one set of assholes telling him what to do, to a more well-intentioned set of assholes? Absolutely. There really isn’t a better description of Team Barton-Banner than that.

It scares Bruce that James didn’t run. It scares him because if he’s somehow put a psychological leash on the guy, it’s going to be a nightmare getting James the help he needs. And that doesn’t even start on the heaps of guilt Bruce will feel. Is already feeling.

_Fuck._

He’d made the wrong choice. He should have pushed about the trigger. Clint could have died because of Bruce’s inadequacies. How would he even explain that? _‘I’m sorry Natasha, your best friend is dead because I was worried about hurting the assassin's feelings. My bad.’_

Yes, maybe he's trivializing his own efforts-- his own efforts are stupid so they deserve to be trivialized.

When he finally removes the pillow, it's because his lungs are burning from lack of air. Clint is still there, watching him, with a look Bruce doesn’t entirely understand. Fondness, maybe? It’s confusing.

“Feel better now?” Clint asks.

“No. Not really,” Bruce says. “I don’t know what I’m doing," he adds, since he feels like Clint needs to understand that. "A real therapist would have seen the size of the trigger coming toward James, and stepped in. Redirected. Something.”

“You mean a real therapist would have told James to stay away from scissors and left him with about as much dignity as a kindergartner who can’t wipe their own ass. That’s not going to fix him.”

“I’m not trying to fix him,” Bruce sighs. “I’m just trying not to make him any worse. And in the moments when it counts-- when he’s out of it and dangerous-- I’m fucking useless because I’ve got bigger problems to deal with than saying the right thing. Why does anyone come within a mile of me? Fuck.”

“God, I wish Tony was here. He loves it when you break out the F-bombs.”

“I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bruce says, shaky with exasperation and the last tinges of fear. “You could have been killed.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Clint says. “I think you’re a first-timer at this, and it’s not my first rodeo. Natasha was a nightmare when I brought her in. She was in full on survival mode, she didn’t trust me any further than she could drop-kick me, and she nearly killed me a dozen times the first week. I got through that; we’ll get through this. When you do the right thing, most of the time it works out.”

The look on Clint’s face is so absolutely sincere, Bruce’s irritation can't hang on. Clint’s a good friend. Clint’s trying to help. Bruce is thanking him by being an ass. He sits up a little straighter and fluffs the pillow he’d mangled.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce sighs. “None of my frustration is with you. You’re just a convenient target.”

“I know,” Clint says. “And it’s all good. I’m not keeping a record of wrongs here. I am gonna go take a walk, though. You okay here?”

“Better now,” Bruce agrees. He even means it.

Clint crosses the room, passes Bruce and gives him a hearty pat on the back as he moves toward his duffel bag. He picks it up by the strap and slings it over his shoulder before walking out the front door.

About half an hour later, the bedroom door swings open. James walks into the living room and his hair is significantly shorter. It doesn’t look bad, either, for having cut it himself. He’s done a much better job than Bruce has ever done on his own hair.

“I like what you did there,” Bruce says. “Looks good.”

“It’s a tactical necessity,” James replies quietly. “My handlers were stupid. I’m not.”

He turns and walks out of the room before Bruce can reply. That fine-- that’s good. Bruce likely would have mumbled something embarrassing like _I’m so proud of you_ , so silence is definitely for the best.

Bruce has not screwed anything up beyond repair.

At least there’s that.

 

***NEW YORK***

“Captain Rogers, I _am_ sorry to wake you,” JARVIS says, his voice quietly filling Steve’s bedroom room. “Agent Romanoff is requesting entry to your quarters. She is most insistent.”

Steve rolls over to glance at the clock. 9:37 AM. He’s been asleep for less than an hour.

“Ummm... sure?” Steve says, sitting up on an elbow. “Let her in.”

The door unlocks and Natasha opens it a second later.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, more awake when he gets a good look at her stony expression. That’s Nat’s Serious Business face.

“Text from Clint. I’m headed to Switzerland.”

“Is Bu-- Is everything okay?”

“Clint didn’t say,” Natasha say apologetically. “Sam’s up for it, too.”

“I take it this is an FYI, not an invitation?”

“I think that would be best.”

“I guess I should be getting used to feeling useless by now.”

“You aren’t useless,” Natasha says. “Someone needs to keep an eye on Tony. Someone needs to keep an eye on you. You two can watch each other, then no eyes are wasted.”

“Is that some kind of ancient Russian proverb?” Steve asks.

“No, but it should be. I’m very wise.”

“You’ve got me there.”

“And you’ve got me in Switzerland,” Natasha consoles. “I’ll do everything I can to bring him home. To bring _all_ of them home.”

“I know you will.”

"Sit tight, Cap. Believe it or not, we've got this."

"I believe it," Steve says. It's almost true.

He tosses and turns for almost half an hour after she's gone before he gives up on getting any more sleep. 

"JARVIS, is Tony awake?" Steve asks.

"By definition, yes," JARVIS says. "Agent Romanoff consulted with Sir before her departure, and he left his bed immediately. He is currently in the kitchen staring at his coffee, in what is a convincing mimic of wakefulness. I am unconvinced."

"Will you let him know I'm on my way?"

"Gladly," JARVIS says.

Steve feels more than a little glad himself. If all he can do to help their cause is keep an eye on Tony-- well, there are worse ways to spend a day. Like alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life's been hard, but I've never started a fic I haven't finished! This one will get there, too, I promise!
> 
> <3 Arrow

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [OrbingArrow](http://orbingarrow.tumblr.com) and ask me anything! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [art for Cut the Wire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089951) by [araydre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/araydre/pseuds/araydre)




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